COMRADE 


i 


MERW1N-WEBSTER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mary  Randall 


©tfjer  330ofes  &g  tlje  Same  8tatfjorg 


By  Merwin- Webster 
CALUMET  "K" 
THE  SHORT-LINE  WAR 

By  Samuel  Merwin 

THE  MERRY  ANNE 
THE  ROAD   BUILDERS 

By  Henry  K.  Webster 

THE  BANKER  AND  THE  BEAR 
THE  DUKE  OF  CAMERON  AVENUE 
ROGER  DRAKE 
TRAITOR  AND  LOYALIST 


COMRADE  JOHN 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


GIFT 


BEECHCROFT 


COMRADE  JOHN 


BY 


MERWIN-WEBSTER 

AUTHORS  OF   "CALUMET  '  K,'"   "THE    SHORT- 
LINE  WAR,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR 
BY  GEORGE  E.  BURR 


gotfc 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1907 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1907. 


Ipresss 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE    FLOWERING    OF    THE    BEECHCROFT 

SPIRIT      *        , i 

II.  THE  MAN  ON  THE  TABLE  ....   26 

III.  LOOKING  GLASS  COUNTRY  .   .   .   .51 

IV.  ELLEN    . 77 

V.  THE  PERSON  WHO  GASPED         .        .        .109 

VI.  GODDESS  EXCELLENTLY  BRIGHT         .        .140 

VII.  THE  STAKE  AND  THE  PLAYERS  .        .        .171 

VIII.  WIRES  AND  THE  MARIONETTE    .        ,        .191 

IX.  GOD  AND  MAMMON 209 

X.  THE  PRICE  .        .  .        .  .    226 

XI.  CYNTHIA  DISCOVERS  THE  WORLD       .        .    249 

XII.  THE  MAN  AT  THE  DOOR    .        .        •        .    278 

XIII.  THE  BEECHCROFT  MIRACLE       „        ..       .312 

XIV.  O  MISTRESS  MINE 341 

• 
vii 

M85238O 


COMRADE   JOHN 

CHAPTER  I 

b 

THE    FLOWERING  OF   THE   BEECHCROFT    SPIRIT 

HERMAN  STEIN  was,  at  forty-five,  a  success  as 
the  prophet  of  a  new  and  growing  religion.  Of 
his  book,  "Toil  and  Triumph,"  he  had  sold  three 
hundred  and  sixty  thousand  copies ;  and  as  he  had 
published  it  himself,  and  had  disposed  of  two-thirds 
of  this  number  through  the  mails  at  the  list  price, 
the  profits  were  large.  His  mind  was  filled  with 
a  not  unpicturesque  mixture  of  Ruskin,  William 
Morris,  Froebel,  Whistler,  The  New  Testament, 
Rossetti,  and  St.  Thomas  Aquinas.  He  had 
outgrown  and  put  behind  him  both  the  dissipa 
tions  of  his  youth  and  his  early  career  as  a  charla 
tan  and  a  wanderer  on  the  outer  coast  of  the  social 
order.  Just  how  much  of  a  charlatan  he  re 
mained,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  With  the 
tremendous  pressure  of  his  success  and  of  the 


2  Comrade  John 

loyal  belief  of  several  hundred  thousand  follow 
ers  urging  him  on  to  cross  the  line  that  sepa 
rates  prophetic  leadership  from  mere  grotesquery, 
it  grew  steadily  more  difficult  to  hold  himself  in 
check.  But  he  recognized  this  difficulty,  and  he 
had  determined  to  keep  himself  resolutely  in  the 
background  during  the  expansion  of  the  "Toil 
and  Triumph"  movement  which  he  believed  must 
be  undertaken  at  once  if  the  ground  he  had 
already  gained  was  not  to  begin  slipping  away 
from  him. 

The  religion  he  was  promoting  was  constructed 
with  some  skill.  He  had  been  quick  to  see  that 
where  people  were  even  fifty  years  ago  aroused  by 
miracles,  they  are  to-day  attracted  by  specious 
reasoning.  He  knew,  too,  that  a  new  religion, 
if  it  is  to  compete  with  the  old  ones,  must  offer  a 
spiritual  something  for  nothing.  The  germ  of  the 
"Toil  and  Triumph"  theory  was  that  one  may 
build  character  and  soul,  which  together  make 
beauty,  by  working  with  the  hands.  The  more 
intrinsically  beautiful  the  object  made,  the  more 
rapid  the  attainment.  Commercial  labor,  with  a 
money  return  in  view,  was  vitiating  and  degrading. 
Drudgery,  also,  was  immoral.  Work,  to  be  of 
the  slightest  value,  must  be  entered  into  with  joy 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  3 

and  lightness  of  heart,  and  therefore  (though  this 
was  not  stated)  must  be  easy.  The  working 
hours,  too,  must  be  short,  in  order  to  allow  time 
for  meditation  and  the  bliss  of  solitude.  Natu 
rally  the  simplest  way  to  draw  considerable 
numbers  into  this  sort  of  thing,  and  to  induce 
them  to  put  some  part  of  their  money  and  property 
into  his  hands,  was  to  establish  one  or  more  se 
cluded  retreats  where  they  could  dwell  and  toil 
together,  removed  from  the  real  cares  and  work 
of  the  world,  —  and  in  this,  again,  Herman  Stein 
was  successful.  He  had  been  known,  on  occa 
sion,  to  supplement  the  undoubted  therapeutic 
value  of  his  mountain  settlement,  Beechcroft,  with 
occasional  feats  of  healing  for  which  his  real  skill 
as  a  hypnotist,  as  well  as  his  dominating  person 
ality,  singularly  fitted  him,  especially  when  dealing 
with  women  and  with  the  less  rugged  types  of  men. 
Stein  had  set  about  the  business  of  extending 
his  enterprise  into  a  big,  international  religion, 
with  foresight.  It  would  not  do  to  change  its 
character,  or  he  would  lose  many  of  his  present 
disciples.  The  development  must  appear  to  be 
spontaneous  while  it  must  really  be  laid  out  as 
cautiously  as  a  political  movement.  Two  things 
seemed  to  him  essential.  The  first  was  to  rebuild 


4  Comrade  John 

Beechcroft,  which  was  in  the  mountains  of  eastern 
New  York  State,  into  the  most  beautiful  place  in 
the  world.  He  knew  that  he  was  not  competent 
to  plan  the  work  himself,  and  yet  he  did  not  think 
it  would  do  to  employ  an  architect  and  contractors ; 
the  development  of  the  place  must  appear  to  be 
the  flowering  of  his  own  genius  under  the  hands 
of  his  disciples.  Therefore  he  proposed  to  find 
another  genius,  preferably  inhabiting  a  young  and 
comparatively  unknown  man  with  the  training 
of  an  architect  and  the  practical  force  of  an  ex 
perienced  contractor,  who  could  direct  the  work 
in  the  guise  of  his  personal  disciple  and  overseer. 

The  second  thing  was  to  find  a  young,  beautiful, 
emotional  woman  who  could  be  trained  and 
moulded  in  his  own  hands  into  an  exponent  of  his 
theories,  and  who  could  be  used  to  interpret 
them  to  the  outside  world  and  to  win  converts. 

It  was  like  Herman  Stein  that  when  these  ideas 
first  came  to  him  he  did  not  know  that  two  such 
persons  existed.  It  was  also  like  him  that  he 
had  found  them  both,  or  that  he  was  on  the  point 
of  finding  them.  The  woman  he  had  not  yet 
seen ;  she  was  abroad  with  her  aunt ;  but  he  had 
seen  five  striking,  fascinating,  bewildering  por 
traits  of  her  at  Moberly  Pole's  exhibition.  The 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  5 

man  was  in  Pittsburg,  where  he  had  created  and 
built  that  extraordinary  spectacle,  "Through  the 
Looking- Glass,"  at  the  great  Industrial  Exhibi 
tion.  His  name  was  John  Chance. 

The  two  things  which  have  made  the  modern 
exposition  possible  are  the  electric  light  and  the 
sort  of  construction  material  which  is  cheap  as 
well  as  beautiful.  These  things  have  also  made 
possible  the  modern  amusement  park,  with  its 
lagoons,  its  chutes,  its  scenic  railways,  its  astonish 
ing  illusions,  and  its  quadrangles  of  grotesque, 
yet  showy,  solid-looking  buildings.  And  just 
as  the  older  day  of  the  strap-railroad,  the  kerosene 
light,  and  the  district  school,  developed  the  type 
of  showman  of  which  P.  T.  Barnum  was  the 
highest  exponent,  so  the  newer  day  of  the  trolley 
car,  the  electric  light,  and  the  ten-cent  magazine 
has  developed  the  type  of  showman  of  which 
John  Chance  seemed  likely  to  become  the  highest 
exponent. 

This  new  sort  of  showman  had  studied  at  the 
Beaux  Arts,  and  had  triumphantly  shattered  the 
ancient  traditions  by  applying  to  architecture  the 
principles  of  pictorial  composition  and  color. 
He  was  a  man  of  education  and  feeling,  was,  in 
short,  what  the  world  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic 


6  Comrade  John 

understands  to  be  a  gentleman,  but  was,  none  the 
less,  in  his  every  fibre,  a  showman,  as  completely 
wrapped  up  in  his  ideas  for  entertaining  and 
thrilling  his  "public"  as  is  the  actor,  the  painter, 
the  writer,  the  poet,  the  musician.  Like  these, 
he  had  his  moments  of  deep  feeling,  of,  one  might 
even  say,  inspiration.  And  like  many  of  these  he 
was  young ;  not  yet  turned  thirty,  smooth  shaven, 
blue  of  eye,  with  a  certain  easy  carelessness  of 
dress,  and  with  an  air  of  unquestioning  com 
mand  in  the  set  of  his  not  overbroad  shoulders 
and  in  the  face  which  seemed  now  boyish,  now 
unexpectedly  mature.  He  feared  no  one;  he 
had  nothing  to  conceal.  His  ideals  were  in  the 
lavish  and  almost  unnecessary  beauty  of  his 
show-creations.  He  always  gave  his  "public" 
more  than  their  money  demanded.  But  within 
these  broad  limits  of  honesty  and  fair  dealing 
he  was  frankly,  good-humoredly  commercial. 

The  only  drawback  to  John  Chance,  in  his 
relation  to  Stein's  plan,  was  that  his  work  at 
Pittsburg,  topping  that  at  Atlanta,  Omaha, 
and  St.  Louis,  had  already  given  him  a  certain 
reputation.  No  man  could  create  anything  so 
new,  so  bizarre,  so  grotesque,  so  riotously  fanci 
ful,  and  yet,  as  a  whole,  such  a  triumph  of  archi- 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  7 

tectural  and  aquatic  grace  and  beauty  as  Chance's 
five-acre  spectacle,  "Through  the  Looking- 
Glass,"  and  remain  in  the  dark.  But  still,  he 
was  young.  And  then  his  fame  was  mostly 
confined,  so  far,  to  exposition  and  theatrical 
circles,  and  his  temporary  disappearance  from 
those  circles  need  hardly  call  for  comment. 
The  great  thing  about  him,  above  and  beyond  his 
unquestionably  sound  architectural  training  and 
his  astounding  fertility  of  ideas,  was  that  he 
carried  all  his  work  in  his  head.  The  accounts 
agreed  on  that.  He  accomplished  his  results 
by  being  on  the  ground  in  person  sixteen  hours 
a  day. 

It  was  with  a  pretty  clear  notion  of  the  man 
in  his  mind  that  Stein  arranged  a  meeting  in 
Moberly  Pole's  studio,  on  Thirty-first  Street. 
The  evening  was  set  after  Chance's  return  to 
New  York  with  his  Pittsburg  laurels  pasted  in 
his  scrap-book. 

Oddly  enough,  Chance  came.  He  had  prom 
ised  himself  a  long  vacation.  He  had  seen  all 
the  plays  in  town.  It  was  February,  and  con 
sequently  no  outdoor  entertainment  was  prac 
ticable.  And  as  he  was  sailing  for  Paris  in 
the  morning,  —  for  Paris,  the  gay,  the  incon- 


8  Comrade  John 

sequent,  the  charming,  —  he  knew  of  no  better 
amusement  for  this  one  evening  than  a  meeting 
with  Herman  Stein.  He  had  no  plans  whatever 
for  the  next  few  months.  Sometime  within  the 
year  he  meant  to  break  ground  for  the  aston 
ishingly  new  sort  of  an  amusement  resort  with 
which  he  proposed  to  conquer  New  York  City; 
but  the  negotiations  for  the  land  were  not  settled 
yet.  Paris  was  his  inspiration.  In  Paris  he 
absorbed  the  light-hearted,  the  fanciful,  the 
glowing  sense  of  exuberant  life  and  light  and 
color  and  pleasure  which  the  unthinking  public 
was  already  coming  to  take  for  granted  in  his 
creations.  He  would  be  back,  sooner  or  later; 
but  meanwhile,  as  he  racily  put  it,  it  was  Paris 
for  his. 

He  came  whizzing  into  Thirty-first  Street  in 
his  big  touring  car,  at  six  o'clock;  ordered  the 
chauffeur  to  return  at  ten;  and  placed  himself 
in  the  hands  of  the  overripe  Moberly  Pole  for 
dinner  at  the  Portrait  Club. 

Chance  found  the  painter  a  bore  of  a  vain 
and  unhealthy  type,  but  partly  because  he  was 
endowed  with  patience  and  humor,  partly  because 
the  situation  piqued  his  interest,  he  endured  the 
man.  When  they  had  returned  to  the  studio, 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  9 

and  a  telephone  message  had  been  sent  to  Stein, 
Chance  whiled  away  a  half  hour  by  strolling 
about  the  long  room.  There  was  not  the  slight 
est  doubt  that  Moberly  Pole  could  paint.  And 
neither  was  there  doubt  that  the  Persian  hangings 
and  the  bits  of  tapestry,  the  really  beautiful  if 
cluttered  bric-a-brac,  the  big  samovar,  the  Bengal 
tiger  skin  thrown  carelessly  across  the  model 
stand,  the  nude  studies  displayed  in  an  artful 
half  light,  the  quaint  furniture,  and  the  three- 
quarters  portrait  of  Mrs.  Eversly  Grant,  the  only 
object  in  the  room  on  which  a  full  light  was 
thrown,  —  neither  was  there  doubt  that  all  this 
had  been  contrived  to  catch  the  fancy  of  those 
ignorantly  wealthy  persons  who  do  not  happen 
to  know  that  a  real  studio  is  usually  a  workshop. 
A  copy  of  "Toil  and  Triumph"  was  lying  on 
the  table,  and  Chance  picked  it  up  and  examined 
it.  The  paper,  a  fairly  successful  imitation  of 
the  thin  paper  used  in  the  Oxford  Bible,  was 
not  good  in  quality;  the  printing  was  bad. 
The  cover  was  of  limp  calf,  turned  wrong  side 
out  to  give  the  effect  of  a  rough  finish,  and  it 
was  held  to  the  book  body  only  by  the  end  papers. 
The  cost  of  manufacture  could  hardly  have  ex 
ceeded  thirty  or  forty  cents  a  volume,  but  Chance 


io  Comrade  John 

was  willing  to  allow  fifty.  It  was  for  a  duplicate 
of  this  copy  that  he  had,  a  day  earlier,  paid  four 
dollars  and  a  half. 

The  bell  rang,  and  after  a  moment  Chance 
could  hear  a  heavy  step  on  the  stair.  Pole 
opened  the  door  and  stepped  aside  with  it ;  and 
Chance,  who  was  standing  in  the  shadow  directly 
opposite,  had  his  first  view  of  the  author  of  "Toil 
and  Triumph." 

Herman  Stein  was  a  large  man,  not  fat,  but 
massive.  He  looked  powerful,  physically,  and 
he  had  a  big,  commanding  way  with  him  which 
his  manner  of  deliberate  simplicity  could  not 
cover.  His  face,  like  his  body,  was  massive 
rather  than  fat,  a  square  face,  blocked  in  with 
rugged  strokes  and  deep  shadows.  It  was  framed, 
under  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  with  a  mass  of 
darkish  hair,  which  was  cut  off  at  the  neck  in 
a  modified  Dutch  fashion. 

"Mr.  Chance  is  here,"  said  Pole,  in  the  high- 
pitched,  melodious  voice,  which  to  most  men 
was  repulsive  and  to  some  women  was  exceed 
ingly  agreeable,  "Mr.  Stein  —  Mr.  Chance." 

Chance  stepped  forward  and  took  the  large 
hand  in  a  firm  grip.  For  one  flashing  instant 
their  eyes  met,  squarely,  unequivocally.  The 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  n 

big  man  was  deep,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
He  not  only  knew  the  world ;  he  knew  also  what 
he  wanted  from  the  world,  and  how  he  proposed 
to  get  it.  And  he  was  inscrutable.  If  ever  he 
had  possessed  a  sense  of  humor,  as  Chance  was 
ready  to  believe,  it  had  been  battened  under  the 
hatches  years  ago  and  starved  to  death.  As 
for  Chance  himself,  in  spite  of  his  easy  courtesy, 
there  was  a  momentary  flicker  in  his  eyes,  or 
perhaps  it  was  about  his  mouth,  which,  if  it  did 
not  suggest  a  mirthful,  almost  impish  delight  in 
the  situation,  suggested  something  very  near  it. 
That  one  quick  look,  and  that  uncompromising 
grip,  made  it  plain  that  these  two  rather  remark 
able  men  were  prepared  to  understand  each  other. 
Pole,  who  had  no  personality,  merely  a  gift  and 
a  manner,  faded  tacitly  out  of  the  picture,  even 
went  off,  after  placing  chairs  and  cigars  at  the 
round  teakwood  table,  and  wrote  letters  in  the 
adjoining  room. 

Chance  lighted  a  cigar,  settled  back  in  his 
chair,  and  raised  his  good-humored  eyes  to  the 
face  of  the  prophet.  The  vacation  spirit  was 
strong  within  him.  He  was  ready  for  any  sort 
of  an  adventure.  The  only  definite  hope  he 
permitted  himself  was  the  faint  hope  that  this 


12  Comrade  John 

might  really  turn  out  to  be  an  adventure  of  one 
mild  sort  or  another.  Meanwhile,  in  a  certain 
tolerant  way,  he  was  ready  to  think  that  he  liked 
Stein.  If  the  man  was  a  faker,  he  was  a  good  one. 

Unexpectedly,  while  Stein  was  arranging  his 
thoughts  and  framing  his  first  few  sentences, 
Chance  decided  to  open  the  conversation  him 
self.  He  removed  his  cigar,  smiled  a  boyish 
smile,  and  said:  — 

"I  read  your  book  last  night." 

Stein  had  no  data  for  concluding  that  Chance 
had  set  about  it  to  jolt  him  off  his  pedestal  as 
a  preliminary  to  getting  down  to  business,  but 
the  suspicion  sprang  up  in  his  mind.  And  he 
was  right.  He  looked  at  the  young  man  out  of 
inscrutable  eyes,  and  replied:  — 

"I  hope  you  found  something  in  it  to  interest 
you,  Mr.  Chance." 

"A  great  deal." 

Stein  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
The  notion  occurred  to  Chance  that  he  was 
revolving  his  ponderous  mind  in  order  to  bring 
another  side  of  it  to  the  front.  Finally  he  spoke. 

"  You  have  had  a  rather  unusually  wide  ex 
perience  for  a  man  of  your  years,  Mr.  Chance." 

A  slight  inclination  of  the  head  was  his  reply. 


The  Beechcroft  Spirit  13 

"Among  other  things,  you  are  an  architect 
and  builder,  I  understand." 

Again  Chance  inclined  his  head. 

"Are  you  open  to  consider  a  professional  en 
gagement?" 

"That  would  depend." 

"On  what?" 

"On  a  great  many  things." 

Again  Stein  paused.  Then  he  produced  a  big 
manila  envelope,  and  spread  out  on  the  table  a  num 
ber  of  photographs,  some  plans,  and  a  map  which 
Chance  recognized  as  one  of  the  large-scale  sheets 
published  by  the  National  Geographical  Survey. 

"These  photographs,"  said  Stein,  "will  give 
you  some  idea  of  Beechcroft." 

"It  seems  to  be  an  attractive  spot,"  said 
Chance,  as  he  looked  them  over. 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  Stein  replied.  "It 
is  a  narrow  valley,  with  Mount  William  rising 
almost  sheer  at  the  head,  and  a  brook  descending 
in  a  series  of  cascades.  The  trees  are  nearly 
all  beeches.  Now,  Mr.  Chance,"  —  the  prophet 
leaned  forward  and  clasped  his  large  hands  on 
the  table,  —  "I  propose  to  make  Beechcroft 
the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  world." 

Chance  looked  up,  frankly  interested. 


14  Comrade  John 

"More,  Mr.  Chance,  I  propose  that  this  beauty 
shall  be  recognized  everywhere  as  a  flowering 
of  the  Beechcroft  spirit,  beauty  through  toil. 
I  propose  to  show  convincingly  that  the  most 
beautiful  place  in  the  world  may  result  from  the 
simple,  day-by-day  work  of  loving  hands,  when 
guided  by  perfect  faith  in  the  beautiful.  The 
means  at  my  disposal  are  limited,  —  I  will  say 
this  frankly,  —  considering  the  extent  of  the 
work  to  be  done.  I  should  like  to  use  nothing 
but  stone  in  constructing  the  buildings,  —  the 
only  enduring  material.  But  I  am  afraid  that 
stone  is  out  of  the  question." 

"What  is  the  extent  of  the  work,  Mr.  Stein?" 
"The  community  buildings  must  include  wood 
carving,  furniture,  carpet,  lace,  and  silver  work 
ing  shops,  publishing  and  printing  shops,  dor 
mitories  and  assembly  rooms,  a  library,  and 
studios.  I  mean  also  to  include  in  the  plan  an 
imposing  temple,  to  seat  two  thousand  persons, 
with  a  great  organ." 

"And  how  much  money  have  you  to  spend?" 
"Any  sum,"  Stein  replied,  not  unimpressively, 
"up  to  half  a  million  dollars." 

"That  certainly  does  eliminate  stone,"  said 
Chance. 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  15 

"What  could  you  suggest?"  asked  Stein, 
watching  the  expression  of  growing  interest 
on  the  young  man's  face. 

"Something  that  looks  like  stone  —  and  isn't. 
If  you  don't  mind  my  telling  you  precisely  what 
I  think,  Mr.  Stein  —  " 

He  waited,  and  the  prophet  indicated  that  he 
did  not  mind. 

" — this  is  a  showman's  problem.  As  a  show 
man,  it  interests  me.  Your  Beechcroft  must  be 
made  an  immensely  impressive  place,  and  it  must 
be  done  as  cheaply  as  possible.  Well,  it  can  be 
done."  As  his  interest  deepened,  his  eyes  took 
fire,  and  his  words  came  faster.  Stein  had  ap 
proached  him  right.  The  notion  of  creating  the 
most  beautiful  place  in  the  world  —  that  was 
what  appealed  to  John  Chance.  "You  want  it  so 
that  the  first  glance  will  strike  in  hard,  will  make 
a  woman,  even  a  man,  feel  grandly  solemn.  You, 
just  as  much  as  I,  must  get  results.  After  your 
publicity  man  has  brought  the  people  out,  you've 
got  to  thrill  them.  You've  got  to  make  them  gasp 
with  delight.  The  dividends  are  in  that  gasp." 

Stein  was  a  little  surprised.  "I  am  not  sure 
that  you  understand,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 
"Beechcroft  is  not  a  side-show." 


1 6  Comrade  John 

"I  think  I  understand,  Mr.  Stein.  I  used  the 
word  'gasp'  advisedly.  Architecture  can  be 
made  to  stir  people  up,  as  music  does.  In  my 
trade,  in  the  side-show  trade,  if  you  like,  we  shake 
the  people  up,  handle  them  roughly,  and  we  find 
that  the  dividends  are  in  the  squeal.  That's 
where  the  chutes  come  in,  and  the  scenic  railway. 
It  is  your  plan,  with  Beechcroft,  if  I  get  you,  to 
stir  their  emotions,  to  give  them  what  I  suppose 
you  might  call  an  '  uplift,'  to  make  them  think 
of  sublime  things.  If  you  can't  produce  some 
such  effect,  you  wouldn't  be  justified  in  spending 
five  thousand  dollars,  let  alone  half  a  million." 

"  Can  such  an  effect  be  produced,  Mr.  Chance  ?  " 

The  young  man  looked  up  and  nodded. 
"Architecture  is  the  most  backward  of  the  arts," 
he  said;  " music  has  broken  loose,  literature  has 
broken  loose,  painting  has  broken  loose.  In  all 
of  them,  big  men  have  overridden  the  ancient 
traditions  in  order  to  express  themselves  and  their 
time  —  our  time.  But  the  architects  go  end 
lessly  on  copying  the  ideas  that  expressed  some 
other  time,  but  that  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  ours." 

"Can  you  explain  how  architecture  is  to  break 
loose,  Mr.  Chance?" 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  17 

Like  a  good  many  other  big-caliber  men,  Her 
man  Stein  recognized  his  sort  of  ideas  wherever 
he  found  them,  and  gladly  took  them  for  his  own. 
This  was  certainly  his  sort  of  idea,  —  free,  bold, 
big.  Poor  Burkett  used  to  have  such  ideas. 
Burkett  had  rewritten  "Toil  and  Triumph," 
fifteen  years  earlier,  on  a  salary  from  Stein,  and 
had  added  form  and  finish  to  Stein's  shrewd 
but  badly  expressed  conceptions.  Then  Burkett, 
like  so  many  other  of  the  weak  men  and  women 
who  had  contributed  to  Stein's  relentless  de 
velopment,  had  dropped  out.  In  his  case  it 
had  been  drink,  ending  in  degradation  and  a 
drifting  back  to  the  outer  coast  where  he  and 
Stein  had  first  met.  Then  Stein  had  taken  over 
the  care  of  his  wife,  and  later,  on  a  rumor  of  his 
death,  had  married  her.  The  rumor  proved  to 
be  misleading ;  but  Burkett  had  sufficient  decency 
of  spirit  to  stay  away  until  a  second  and  this  time 
a  well-grounded  rumor  to  the  same  effect  found 
its  way  to  Beechcroft. 

Stein  was  looking  at  Chance,  awaiting  an 
answer  to  his  question. 

"I  could  hardly  say,"  replied  the  younger  man, 
with  a  slight  shrug.  "I  rather  guess  that  is 
where  the  individual  enters.  I  can  feel  these 
c 


1 8  Comrade  John 

things  and  I  can  work  them  out,  but  it  would  take 
some  time  to  put  what  I  feel  in  words.  I  will 
say  this  much,  however.  Suppose  your  temple, 
which,  by  the  way,  ought  to  express  a  conception 
as  new  architecturally  as  your  religion  expresses 
philosophically,  —  suppose  it  were  to  take  the 
form  of  a  tower,  or  a  cluster  of  towers,  with  that 
upper  cascade  issuing  from  its  base.  Then  sup 
pose  you  were  to  lead  up  to  it  with  the  other 
buildings  in  a  half  ellipse,  backing  up  against 
the  hills  on  each  side."  He  spread  out  the 
Geological  Survey  map,  and  studied  the  brown 
contour  lines  for  a  moment. 

"Treat  the  elliptical  enclosure  and  the  curving 
driveway  around  it  conventionally,  and  paint 
all  the  buildings  to  represent  white  marble. 
Now  suppose  you  were  driving  into  the  valley 
for  the  first  time,  along  the  road  that  swings 
around  the  end  of  this  hill,  —  he  indicated  the 
place  on  the  map,  —  "and  the  thing  burst  on  you 
all  at  once,  —  the  green  enclosure  with  the  two 
rows  of  snow-white  buildings  curving  around  it, 
leading  up  to  the  great  white  temple,  all  standing 
out  sharply  against  the  green  slope  of  Mount 
William,  —  wouldn't  something  like  that  make 
you  sit  up  and  catch  your  breath,  seen  on  a  clear 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  19 

day,  under  a  blue-and-white  sky?  You  might 
add  a  touch  of  color,  to  warm  it  up,  humanize 
it.  Say,  red  tile  roofs  all  around,  and  a  touch  of 
red  about  the  temple.  If  red  tiles  cost  too  much, 
you  could  make  it  out  of  staff  —  excelsior  and 
cement  plaster,  that  is  —  and  paint  it.  Staff 
lasts  quite  a  few  years." 

The  prophet  was  looking  squarely  at  Chance. 
Now,  without  the  slightest  change  of  expression, 
he  said,  "Will  you  undertake,  Mr.  Chance,  to 
make  Beechcroft  what  I  want  it  to  be?" 

Outwardly  Chance  was  as  inscrutable  as  the 
prophet,  but  he  was  none  the  less  really  surprised. 
Until  this  moment  it  had  simply  not  occurred 
to  him  to  take  the  situation  seriously.  Stein 
was  a  joke,  Beechcroft  was  a  joke,  "Toil  and 
Triumph"  was  a  joke.  The  something  very 
like  admiration  that  Stein  inspired  in  him  grew 
out  of  the  fact  that  Stein,  too,  was  a  showman, 
and  a  good  one.  He,  too,  knew  how  to  handle 
crowds,  knew  how  to  sway  and  dominate  them. 
But  now,  really,  if  Stein  would  pay  enough,  why 
not  make  Beechcroft  the  most  beautiful  place 
in  the  world?  He  could  do  it,  he  knew,  in  six 
or  eight  months.  It  would  solve  the  problem 
of  keeping  his  foremen  employed.  And  there 


20  Comrade  John 

ought  to  be  money  in  it.  If  Stein  wanted  to  hire 
a  creative  genius,  he  would  have  to  pay  for  him. 

These  things  passed  through  his  mind  during 
the  smaller  part  of  a  minute,  while  he  sat  quietly 
looking  across  the  table.  "Yes,"  he  said  then, 
"I'll  undertake  it." 

Stein's  interlocked  fingers  gripped  together 
more  tightly.  He  was  now  at  the  critical  point 
in  this  situation.  He  had  to  ask  Chance  to  do 
a  highly  unprofessional  thing,  a  thing  which  no 
regular  architect  who  was  big  enough  and  ex 
perienced  enough  to  undertake  the  work  would 
for  an  instant  consider  doing.  He  knew  that 
Chance  was  not  a  regular  architect;  but  he  had 
no  means  of  knowing  that  the  nearest  thing  to  a 
bitter  strain  in  Chance's  character  grew  out  of 
the  fact  that  most  of  the  regular  architects, 
wrapped  in  their  traditions  and  their  dogmas, 
scorned  John  Chance,  where  they  gave  him  any 
notice  at  all,  precisely  because  he  was  free,  and 
bold,  and  big.  He  had  no  means  of  knowing 
that  John  Chance  was  a  very  lonely  young  man, 
standing  by  himself,  really  the  first  exemplar 
of  a  new  sort  of  profession  which  was  not  even 
that  of  a  regular  showman.  So  he  put  the 
question  with  some  inward  concern,  because  if 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  21 

Chance  should  refuse  him,  he  did  not  know, 
at  this  moment,  where  he  could  turn. 

"I  have  only  one  condition  to  make,  Mr. 
Chance.  It  must  be  clearly  understood  that  the 
entire  plan  is  mine.  The  new  Beechcroft  is  to 
be  a  realization  of  my  ideals  carried  out  under 
the  hands  of  those  who  accept  my  principles. 
If  you  do  this  work,  you  must  appear  only  as  one 
of  my  followers.  You  and  what  few  assistants 
you  bring  with  you,  must  dress  as  we  dress,  and 
live  as  we  live.  It  is  vitally  important  that  those 
who  see  you  at  Beechcroft  shall  not  know  your 
history  or  your  name.  Frankly,  if  it  should  get 
out  that  I  had  employed  you  to  do  this  work,  the 
unthinking  public  would  jump  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  the  whole  Beechcroft  idea  is  a  fraud.  It 
would  ruin  me,  and  those  who  are  dependent 
on  me.  The  public,  as  you  doubtless  are  aware, 
Mr.  Chance,  is  too  capricious,  too  unreasonable, 
to  be  taken  into  our  confidence." 

Chance's  face  did  not  change  expression,  but 
his  eyes  shot  one  swift  look  into  the  massive, 
shadowy  face.  During  that  look  his  price  went 
up  exactly  one  hundred  per  cent.  Granting 
Stein's  premises,  the  stipulation  was  sound  enough. 
Stein's  religion  was  based  on  the  doctrine  that 


22  Comrade  John 

beautiful  things  were  the  result  of  work  with  the 
hands  —  and  of  faith.  If  the  new  Beechcroft 
should  be  the  result,  apparently,  of  anything 
but  the  handiwork  of  the  Beechcrofters,  Stein 
would  be  stultified.  Chance  saw  all  this  clearly 
enough,  and  had  there  been  no  business  considera 
tions  involved,  he  would  probably  have  indulged 
in  a  good  laugh. 

"What  is  the  dress?"  he  asked. 

"A  modified  Grecian  tunic  and  sandals  for 
the  summer.  In  winter,  we  dress  more  heavily, 
of  course." 

"Chance's  eyes  strayed  off  to  the  Japanese 
hangings,  the  feminine  little  writing  desk,  and 
Moberly  Pole;  and  that  same  mirthful,  impish 
flicker  which  had  appeared  about  his  mouth  at 
the  beginning  of  the  conversation,  reappeared 
there  now.  He  was  trying  to  imagine  Bill 
Hemenway,  his  superintendent  of  construction, 
in  a  tunic  and  sandals. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "My  price  is  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars  for  a  year's  work,  or  for  the  job  if  it 
takes  less  than  a  year." 

Stein  swallowed  something.  "But  what  if 
it  should  take  more  than  a  year?"  he  asked. 

"It  won't." 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  23 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Finally  the  prophet 
inclined  his  head  very  deliberately.  "We  are 
agreed,  then,"  he  said,  and  extended  his  hand. 

But  Chance  had  another  question.  "How 
am  I  to  be  assured,  Mr.  Stein,  that  you  can  pay 
me  this  money?" 

Stein  again  revolved  that  big  mind  of  his. 
Then  he  turned  to  Moberly  Pole,  who  was 
writing  busily.  "Have  you  a  messenger  call, 
Mr.  Pole?" 

The  painter  shook  his  head. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Chance,  glancing  at 
his  watch.  He  crossed  to  the  window,  parted 
the  thin  silk  curtains,  and  looked  down  into 
Thirty-first  Street.  The  row  of  old-fashioned 
brownstone  houses  opposite,  all  alike,  and  all, 
taken  together,  like  any  other  row  of  brownstone 
houses  on  any  other  cross  street  in  that  part  of 
town,  had  about  them  a  wholesome  air  of  per 
manence  which  was  refreshing  after  the  un 
healthy  atmosphere  of  Pole's  studio.  Except 
for  his  motor  car,  which  stood  at  the  curb  below, 
and  for  a  few  pedestrians,  the  street  was  empty; 
but  over  at  the  corner  he  could  just  see  the  lights 
and  the  thinnish  stream  of  vehicles  that  marked 
Fifth  Avenue.  From  the  other  direction  came 


24  Comrade  John 

faintly  the  clang  and  rumble  of  street  cars,  which 
he  knew  meant  that  Broadway  lay  there,  with 
its  glaring  lights,  and  its  restaurants,  and  its 
gay,  brazen,  costly  sense  of  living  fast  and  well. 
He  rather  liked  Broadway  —  next  to  Paris. 
It  was  stimulating,  if  you  stopped  just  short 
of  taking  it  seriously. 

When  he  turned  back  into  the  studio,  he  saw 
in  it  what  he  had  seen  when  he  first  entered,  a 
picture  that  rang  hollow  with  artifice.  It  did 
not  look  quite  real,  even  including  Stein  and 
Pole,  who  were  quietly  talking  together. 

11  My  car  is  here,"  he  said.  "You  are  welcome 
to  use  it  for  any  message  you  wish  to  send." 

Accordingly,  Stein  wrote  a  brief  note,  and 
shortly  afterward  received  a  reply  which  he  handed 
to  Chance.  "It  is  addressed  directly  to  you,  I 
see." 

Chance  read  it,  and  for  the  first  time  nearly 
gave  expression  to  his  astonishment.  The  letter 
was  written  in  longhand,  and  was  signed  with 
a  name  familiar  to  every  one  who  knows  anything 
whatever  about  Wall  Street  and  its  corpora 
tions.  It  was  an  agreement  to  pay  John  Chance, 
in  consideration  for  his  work  in  reconstructing 
Beechcroft,  the  sum  of  fifty  thousand  dollars, 


The  Beechcrojt  Spirit  25 

in  four  equal  quarterly  instalments,  the  first  of 
which  would  be  payable  on  the  first  day  of 
March.  Chance  replaced  it  in  the  envelope, 
and  pocketed  it. 

"That  is  all  right,"  he  said,  with  a  cheerful 
nod.  "  I  am  with  you,  or  I  soon  shall  be.  I 
am  going  away  for  a  little  rest  —  a  few  weeks. 
When  I  get  back,  I  shall  be  ready  to  pitch  in. 
You  had  better  let  me  take  the  map  and  the 
photographs." 

He  said  good  night,  ran  down  the  stairs,  let 
himself  out,  and  with  a  brief  —  "Hoboken, 
Claude,  —  the  Deutschland"  curled  up  on  the 
broad  seat  in  the  enclosed  tonneau  and  went  to 
sleep.  He  was  to  have  a  number  of  interesting 
experiences  had  he  known  it.  He  had  entered 
into  a  new  set  of  relationships,  and  for  a  while 
he  was  to  see  more  of  the  long  arm  of  circumstance 
than  he  had  ever  happened  to  see  before.  But 
he  did  not  know  it.  And  in  any  case  he  would 
probably  have  slept  as  soundly. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  MAN  ON  THE  TABLE 

JOHN  CHANCE  had,  on  the  afternoon  of  Mardi 
Gras,  exactly  the  best  place  in  Paris  for  watching 
the  carnival,  a  table  not  quite  in  the  front  rank 
before  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  He  had  a  cigar 
between  his  fingers  and  a  little  asbestos  mat  over 
his  glass  of  coffee  to  keep  the  confetti  out  of  it. 

It  was  a  sparkling,  frosty  day,  and  the  great 
living  river,  the  Boulevard,  where  the  police  had 
stopped  all  wheel  traffic  hours  before,  was  flowing 
bank  full  with  a  stream  of  irresponsible,  irre 
pressible,  good-humored,  childlike  humanity. 
Here  was  an  eddy  where  a  close-packed  ring  of 
folk  gazed  in  serious  wonder,  while  two  grave  and 
apparently  much- embarrassed  Englishmen  exe 
cuted  a  painstaking  dance,  and  a  pretty  girl  in 
the  brass  helmet  and  breeches  of  the  Garde 
Rtpublicaine  officiously  kept  back  the  crowd. 
Now  and  then  a  pair  of  grotesque  masks  would 
26 


The  Man  on  the  Table  27 

go  by,  and  once  a  whole  riotous  platoon  of 
pierrots  and  harlequins. 

But  these  costumes  were,  after  all,  exceptional. 
The  spirit  of  the  frolic  was  spontaneous  enough, 
went  far  enough  below  the  surface,  to  be  enjoyed 
in  whatever  clothes  one  happened  to  have  on. 
There  was  just  one  rule  of  conduct  in  force  to 
day,  to  take  everything  for  granted  and  to  keep 
your  temper;  and  subject  to  this  rule  everybody 
was  equally  invited  to  come  out  and  play,  regard 
less  of  the  uniform  society  had  imposed  on  him. 
In  general,  the  only  modification  of  one's  every 
day  appearance  was  that  effected  by  the  confetti ; 
the  confetti  that  lay  thick  upon  shoulders  and 
drifted  in  hat  brims,  that  powdered  rich  furs  and 
caught  in  dishevelled  hair  and  wedged  itself  into 
the  meshes  of  lace ;  the  confetti  that  crunched  and 
crept  under  foot  like  snow,  and  that  hung  in  the 
air  a  veritable  varicolored  mist,  spouting  up  in 
little  jets  and  shimmering  down  upon  the  per 
fectly  miscellaneous,  perfectly  homogeneous  crowd. 

Paris  would  have  got  up  this  celebration,  no 
doubt,  even  if  John  Chance  had  not  arrived  the 
day  before,  but  it  was  as  good  a  recognition  of 
the  beginning  of  his  holiday  as  if  it  had  been 
planned  for  him  expressly.  He  was  the  very  same 


28  Comrade  John 

man  who  at  Pittsburg  a  little  while  ago  had  been 
producing  one  brilliant  idea  a  minute,  like  a 
human  spark  coil,  the  same  man,  but  animated 
now  by  a  milder  current.  He  lounged  back  in 
his  chair,  taking  little  sips  of  smoke  and  coffee, 
and  feeling  very,  very  much  at  home.  It  sur 
prised  him  how  small  a  difference  a  year's  absence 
makes,  how  many  people  he  knew,  among  the 
stream  that  went  crowding  past.  He  saw  a  few 
really  old  friends,  men  whom,  a  little  later,  he 
would  look  up  and  talk  out  the  nights  with,  but 
they  got  nothing  from  him  now  but  a  gay  hail 
and  a  wave  of  the  hand.  He  was  visiting  Paris 
to-day,  and  no  single  one  of  her  inhabitants  could 
get  more  than  a  momentary  spark  of  his  attention. 
But  even  this  indolent  sort  of  enjoyment  in 
volved  for  him  some  sort  of  occupation,  and  the 
party  at  the  next  table  provided  him  with  it. 
There  were  three  of  them,  a  stout,  bourgeois 
young  Frenchwoman  and  two  men,  apparently 
her  husband  and  his  brother.  She  was  dressed 
in  what  was  patently  her  gala  attire;  her  cloak 
and  hat  —  the  latter  a  large  and  rather  sprawly 
confection  —  had  evidently  felt  the  restraint 
of  her  husband's  hold  on  the  purse-strings,  but 
the  gown  was  the  unchecked  efflorescence  of  her 


The  Man  on  the  Table  29 

own  fancy.  She  threw  back  the  cloak  on  taking 
her  seat,  though  the  day  was  sharp  enough  to 
suggest  her  retaining  it,  and  the  glory  of  the  gown 
was  revealed.  It  was  a  papery  satin  of  that  shade 
known  as  magenta  and  it  caught  John  Chance's 
attention  like  a  shout  in  his  ear.  He  gazed  at  it 
in  nai've  amusement  for  a  while,  then  bought  two 
sacks  of  blue  confetti  from  a  passing  vender. 
The  effect  of  an  overtone  of  blue  on  that  shiny 
purply  pink  ought  to  be  electrifying.  He  lazily 
sprinkled  handfuls  of  it  over  her,  and  so  success 
ful  was  the  resulting  color  effect  that  most  of  the 
passing  crowd  caught  the  idea  and  humored  it. 
Those  who  did  not,  he  gently  but  gravely  re 
monstrated  with,  in  French  or  in  English,  as 
it  happened.  She  retaliated  by  shaking  her  pink 
confetti  into  his  coffee  every  time  he  tried  to 
drink  it  and,  with  her  two  escorts,  passed  the 
time  of  day  with  him  as  one  does  on  Mardi  Gras, 
and  on  no  other  day  in  the  calendar. 

The  game  needed  only  occasional  moments 
of  his  attention,  but  it  was  during  one  of  these 
that  a  man,  an  American,  about  his  own  age, 
struggled  out  of  the  crowd  and  got  near  enough  to 
slap  him  on  the  shoulder  before  he  was  recog 
nized. 


30  Comrade  John 

"  Hello—  "he  began. 

Chance  looked  up,  and  saw  in  the  newcomer 
an  old  companion  of  his  Beaux  Arts  days;  it 
was  all  of  three  years  since  they  had  met,  but 
to-day  was  carnival.  "You  haven't  any  blue 
confetti,  have  you?"  he  said,  by  way  of  greeting, 
and  nodded  toward  the  lady  in  the  magenta  gown. 

The  new  man  looked  and  smiled,  but  rather 
absently.  He  had  something  more  serious  on 
his  mind.  "Has  she  gone  by  here?"  he  asked. 
'Have  you  seen  her?" 

Chance  laughed,  an  outright,  boyish  laugh. 
"You  do  take  a  chap  back.  Yes,  I've  seen  her. 
For  a  rough  guess,  I've  seen  about  nine  thousand 
of  her." 

The  other  man  smiled,  drew  up  to  Chance's 
table  an  opportunely  vacated  chair,  and  rather 
deliberately  lighted  a  cigarette.  "You  haven't 
seen  her,  then,"  he  said  quietly.  "You'll  know 
it  when  you  do.  You  and  all  the  rest  of  you  in 
this  cafe  will  be  standing  on  your  tables.  She's 
just  one  of  those  freaks  of  nature  that  happen 
along  once  a  century  or  so,  and  can  make  men 
do  such  things.  She's  dressed  in  white  and  — 
I  mean  this  absolutely  literally  —  she's  lambent ; 
like  a  great  cathedral  candle,  burning.  I  actually 


The  Man  on  the  Table  31 

believe  she's  luminous.  She  made  me  think  of 
the  angel  of  the  resurrection." 

The  man  was  speaking,  between  long  inhalations 
of  the  cigarette,  quietly,  and  out  of  a  varied  and 
abundant  experience;  it  was  clear  that  he  meant 
exactly  what  he  said.  Chance  looked  at  him  with 
a  glint  of  real  interest,  but  he  answered,  smiling, 
as  he  had  done  before. 

"What  Paradise  does  she  inhabit,  this  angel? 
Folies  Bergere  ?  Moulin  Rouge  ?" 

11  She's  an  American,  and  she's  out  with  that 
little  shrimp  Hollister.  Do  you  remember  him?" 

The  corners  of  Chance's  eyes  screwed  down 
a  little.  "The  last  time  I  saw  Tommy  Hollister 
was  one  rainy  evening  when  he  was  walking  down 
Mont-Parnasse,  past  the  Dome.  He  wore  sandals 
instead  of  shoes,  and  no  socks,  and  I  can  see  his 
muddy  trouser  legs  now,  flapping  around  his  bare 
ankles.  He  had  that  English  girl  with  him  — 
you  remember  ?  —  and  they  slopped  along  in  the 
rain  with  their  arms  around  each  other's  necks, 
and  smoked  the  same  cigarette,  alternately." 

The  other  man  frowned.  "I  know,"  he  said. 
"But  this  girl,  —  oh,  I've  no  brief  for  her,  — but 
it's  patent  that  she  doesn't  belong  anywhere 
in  the  same  world  with  Tommy  Hollister.  It's 


32  Comrade  John 

only  some  rather  grotesque  accident  that  can  have 
thrown  them  together.  She  ought  to  be  taken 
away  from  him  and  sent  home  to  her  mother. 
She  is  to  be  taken  away  from  him,  I  understand, 
but  I'm  afraid  that  the  sending  home  to  her 
mother  will  be  postponed  —  indefinitely.  And 
that  will  be  a  pity." 

Chance  looked  at  him  curiously.  "It's  not 
in  the  least  like  you,  —  a  man  at  your  time  of 
life, — this  taking  appearances  so  seriously.  Any 
how,  there  never  was  a  carnival  that  somebody 
hadn't  to  pay  for." 

His  friend's  only  reply  was  to  lay  a  compelling 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  with  the  other  point  into 
the  crowd.  "There  she  is,"  he  said.  "I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  white.  Get  up  on  your  table  so 
that  you  can  see  her." 

That  course  —  it  seemed  a  perfectly  obvious 
one  to  the  man  who  suggested  it  —  proved  un 
necessary,  for  an  opening  in  the  crowd  at  that 
moment  revealed  her,  her  and  the  little  shrimp 
Hollister  at  her  side.  Their  view  lasted  perhaps 
five  seconds,  and  for  the  better  part  of  one  of  them 
her  eyes  were  on  John  Chance.  All  around  them, 
in  literal  fulfilment  of  the  terms  of  the  prophecy, 
people  mounted  their  tables  and  craned  their 


The  Man  on  the  Table  33 

necks,  and  many  scrambled  out  into  the  street 
to  follow  her.  But  the  two  men  sat  just  as  they 
were  for  rather  a  long  time,  in  silence.  It  was 
Chance  who  broke  it,  speaking  in  a  rather  dry, 
analytical  voice. 

"It's  partly  her  hair  —  partly.  You're  right  in 
saying  it  flames,  and  yet  it  hasn't  a  particle  of 
red  about  it.  It's  a  little  the  color  of  deep  water 
with  sunlight  through  it.  That  sounds  fanciful, 
but  it's  not  far  wrong.  But  it's  more  in  her  eyes. 
She  has  the  most  —  the  most  curious,  questioning 
eyes  I  ever  saw.  I  wonder  how  far  a  man  might 
go  to  satisfy  that  look  —  or  to  set  it  alight  again." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while  after  that;  then  he 
shook  his  head,  and  with  a  rather  rueful  laugh, 
turned  upon  his  friend.  "Confound  you,  it's 
all  in  the  carnival.  But  you're  right ;  she  doesn't 
belong  in  the  same  world  with  Tommy  Hollister. 
And  she  oughtn't  —  a  girl  like  that  —  to  be  loose 
in  Paris  at  all  to-day.  I'd  like  to  know  how 
fast  her  pulse  is  going  and  what  pitch  her  nerves 
are  keyed  to." 

"They're  nothing  to  what  they'll  be  before 
the  day  is  over.  That  crowd  of  young  savages 
from  the  Julian  are  getting  up  a  float,  and  they 
mean  to  take  her  away  from  Hollister  and  put 


34  Comrade  John 

her  up  on  it  and  haul  her  down  the  Boulevard. 
There'll  be  no  stopping  them,  either;  they'll 
have  all  the  crowd  with  them.  That's  when  the 
real  sensation  will  begin,  the  sort  of  thing  that 
makes  the  authorities  nervous.  Why,  if  that  girl 
should  start  singing  the  Marseillaise,  she  could 
take  the  whole  crowd  across  the  river  and  sack 
the  Luxembourg." 

"And  when  the  show  is  over,"  said  Chance, 
thoughtfully,  "  a  girl  like  that,  — blazing  like  that, 
—  she  will  be  burnt  out  as  clean  as  the  ash  on 
this  cigar.  That  is,  supposing  they  do  get  her 
in  the  first  place." 

"They'll  do  that.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there 
comes  the  float  now.  And  only  think  how  she'll 
look  up  on  top  of  it !  They  do  things  well,  those 
boys,  when  they  seriously  set  out  not  to  be  serious." 
His  enthusiasm  mounted  as  the  float  came  slowly 
nearer  along  the  Boulevard.  "Can't  you  see 
how  she'll  blaze,  up  there?  And  isn't  it  bully 
architecture,  the  way  it  all  leads  up  to  where 
she'll  be  ?  And  where  do  you  suppose  they  com 
mandeered  those  three  big  white  Normans  to 
pull  it?  Just  unhooked  them  from  a  passing 
bus,  likely  enough.  —  Oh,  she's  too  inevitably  a 
part  of  it  to  get  off.  Come  along  and  see." 


The  Man  on  the  Table  35 

"I  think,"  said  Chance,  rather  slowly,  "that 
I'll  stay  here." 

"  Bones  too  old  for  the  fires  of  spring  to  get 
into  them?"  Well,  mine  aren't.  So  long."  And 
he  was  out  of  range  of  a  reply  in  the  crowd  that 
pressed  along  behind  the  empty  float. 

Chance  caught  the  eyes  of  a  waiter  and  ordered 
two  fresh  glasses  of  coffee.  One  was  for  himself, 
and  he  explained  the  other  to  the  waiter  by  saying 
that  the  gentleman  would  return  in  a  moment. 
It  gave  him  rather  more  elbow  room,  having  two 
chairs.  He  might  not  want  the  extra  one  at  all, 
but  it  was  in  his  mind  that  he  might.  Associated 
with  this  idea  was  a  certain  smiling  incredulity 
over  his  friend's  remark  that  it  would  be  impos 
sible  to  stop  those  young  savages  from  Julian's. 
Impossible  was  a  pretty  big  word. 

With  that  reflection,  he  settled  back  into  the 
spirit  of  the  carnival.  He  was  at  the  beginning 
of  his  holiday,  he  was  in  the  most  irresponsible 
of  places  on  the  most  irresponsible  day  of  the 
year,  and  he  did  not  propose  to  waste  it  worrying 
over  the  antics,  or  the  fate  —  though  it  was  likely 
to  be  tragic  enough  —  of  any  American  girl  who 
had  been  silly  enough  to  go  out  with  Tommy 
Hollister.  He  could  not  pretend  that  it  was  not 


36  Comrade  John 

a  pity  she  had  done  it,  but  once  he  had  acknowl 
edged  it  was  a  pity,  which  he  ungrudgingly  did, 
his  duty  was  fully  performed.  He  could  make 
himself  comfortable,  and  take  little  sips  of  smoke 
and  coffee  —  he  lighted  a  fresh  cigar  to  prove  it 
—  and  sprinkle  confetti  over  the  lady  in  paper 
satin  magenta,  just  as  he  had  been  doing  before 
his  friend  had  come  along  to  stir  him  with 
talk  about  a  resurrection  angel.  "The  fires  of 
spring, "  indeed !  The  man  who  wrote  that  line 
would  never  have  gone  pushing  about  in  the 
crowd.  He  would  have  stayed  right  here  at  his 
little  table,  contented  to  leave  the  event  with 
Allah,  where  it  belonged.  Chance  felt  grateful 
to  his  friend  for  having  quoted  the  line,  and  to 
old  Omar  Khayyam  for  having  written  it. 

Whoever  was  to  have  charge  of  the  event, 
Allah,  or  those  young  savages  from  the  Julian, 
it  was  clear  enough  that  an  event  was  coming  off. 
There  was  some  sort  of  leaven  at  work  out  there 
in  the  crowd,  the  organizing  force  of  some  single 
focal  idea:  the  stream  was  flowing  all  one  way 
now;  people  had  ceased  strolling  and  were 
going  somewhere.  Those  who  could  not  move 
for  the  press  were  standing  on  tiptoe,  their  hands 
on  any  pair  of  shoulders  that  offered  support, 


The  Man  on  the  Table  37 

looking  up  the  Boulevard  toward  the  Madeleine. 
The  people  about  him  in  the  cafe*  were  looking  too, 
in  the  same  direction,  and  though  he  felt  sure  there 
was  nothing  to  see,  and  in  spite  of  the  restraining 
influence  of  Omar,  John  Chance  leaned  far  out 
and  craned  his  neck  with  the  rest.  He  was,  in 
fact,  so  busy  looking  that  a  stranger  who  had  laid 
hands  on  his  extra  chair,  was  in  the  very  act  of 
dragging  it  away  before  Chance  observed  him. 
Then  he  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  it. 

"Pardon,"  he  said,  nodding  toward  the  un 
touched  glass  of  coffee,  "madame  will  return  in 
a  moment."  The  Frenchman  raised  his  polished 
hat  and  expressed  thousands  of  polished  apologies, 
while  Chance,  equally  serious,  prolonging  the 
scene  all  he  could  just  to  see  how  far  so  tenuous 
a  situation  could  be  made  to  stretch,  replied  with 
an  equal  number  of  thousands  of  regrets  at  being 
obliged  to  assume  so  disobliging  an  attitude. 

He  was  talking  over  his  shoulder,  for  the  French 
man  stood  behind  him,  so  that  for  the  first  time 
his  eyes  were  away  from  the  Boulevard,  and  as 
he  ran  on  with  his  inexhaustible  stock  of  regrets, 
he  suddenly  became  aware  that  he  had  lost  the 
man's  attention.  The  attitude  was  still  politely 
at  his  service,  but  the  eyes,  with  an  odd  expres- 


38  Comrade  John 

sion  in  them,  were  looking  beyond  him.  Others 
were  looking  the  same  way,  men  and  women  were 
getting  to  their  feet,  and  one  heard  a  metallic 
scraping  sound  as  the  little  iron  chairs  and  tables 
were  moved  about.  Chance  turned. 

The  Boulevard  was  no  longer  a  river,  it  was  a 
turbulent  lake ;  a  lake  of  faces  all  turned  toward 
him.  And  right  before  him,  not  five  feet  away, 
stood,  incarnate,  the  idea  that  had  transformed  the 
crowd,  the  lambent  girl,  the  cathedral  candle,  burn 
ing,  the  prospective  sacrifice  to  the  spirit  of  carnival. 

But  that  was  not  the  way  he  saw  her.  For 
the  moment  he  took  for  granted  her  beauty  and 
her  mystery;  his  trained,  observant  eyes  were 
busy  with  details.  His  former  impression  that 
she  was  fantastically  dressed  for  the  carnival 
was  wrong ;  she  had  simply  assumed  the  shackles 
of  convention  and  conquered  them.  She  wore 
a  long  half- fitting  coat  of  ivory  broadcloth;  her 
small,  smart  toque  was  in  the  same  tone,  with  a 
warm  touch  of  sable  about  it.  At  her  throat  was 
an  immense  and  very  fine  opal  in  an  art  nouveau 
setting  of  pearls.  She  was  quite  alone,  the  soiled 
little  man  who  had  been  her  companion  having 
disappeared.  She  was  breathing  fast,  and  a  faint 
quiver  observable  in  her  eyelids  and  about  her 


The  Man  on  the  Table  39 

fine  nostrils  and  lips  indicated  an  overmastering 
excitement.  She  had  the  air  of  standing  still 
only  because  she  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn, 
and  a  look  that  might  turn  to  fear  but  was  at  the 
moment  hardly  more  than  perplexity. 

Clearly  she  did  not  know;  had  she  known, 
her  look  would  have  spoken  no  mere  half-hu 
morous  dismay,  but  downright  terror.  Chance 
knew.  He  knew  the  reckless,  good-humored, 
highly  talented  young  savages  who  had  impro 
vised  that  float,  and  who  meant  now  to  enthrone 
her  on  it,  knew  them  because  he  had  once  been 
one  of  them,  and  in  a  way  was  one  of  them  still. 
There  came  pretty  vividly  to  his  mind  the  memory 
of  a  half-naked  young  beauty  who  had  queened 
it  all  one  night  at  a  QuatV  Arts  ball,  and  from 
that  picture  his  mind  ran  ahead  to  the  hour  when 
this  present  brief  reign  of  Misrule  should  be  over, 
to  the  time  when  this  cathedral  candle,  burnt  low 
and  guttered,  should  be  put  out.  If  they  had 
her  for  their  queen  to-night,  to-morrow  —  well, 
she  would  belong  in  the  same  soiled,  spent  world 
with  Tommy  Hollister.  They  meant  to  have  her. 
The  rules  of  the  game  were  all  in  their  favor, 
the  spirit  of  the  day,  the  temper  of  the  crowd, 
and  more  than  all,  the  imperative  fitness  of  the 


4o  Comrade  John 

girl  for  the  position  they  had  designed  for  her. 
They  were  coming  for  her  now,  worming  their 
way  through  the  mob  —  it  was  a  mob,  you  could 
tell  by  the  noise  it  made.  Chance  could  see  here 
and  there  about  the  outskirts  of  it  the  white  batons 
of  ineffectual  gendarmes. 

And  at  that  he  smiled,  a  buoyant,  boyish  smile. 
Allah  had  turned  the  job  over  to  him ! 

The  girl  stood  there,  not  five  feet  away,  looking 
straight  into  his  face.  And  his  job  was  to  take 
her  away  from  those  highly  talented,  perfectly 
merciless  young  savages,  and  return  her,  virginal 
of  soul,  to  whoever  was  responsible  for  her.  It 
was  a  large  order  —  his  friend's  statement  that 
a  platoon  of  police  could  not  do  it  was  probably 
well  within  the  truth.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
Allah  had  turned  the  job  over  to  him. 

So  he  stood  there,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  smiling 
a  pleased,  boyish,  half-shy  sort  of  welcome  to 
her.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Here's  your  chair,  waiting  for  you,"  he  said, 
"and  here's  your  coffee.  I'd  begun  to  be  afraid 
you  weren't  coming." 

Her  answering  smile  was  instantaneous.  All 
day  she  had  been  aware  that  she  was  just  a 
spectacle  in  the  great  crowd,  but  still  something 


The  Man  on  the  Table  41 

utterly  apart  from  it,  and  the  consciousness  had 
induced  a  wild  sort  of  exhilaration  that  missed 
being  happiness  only  because  of  a  vague  disquiet 
which  underlay  it  all.  But  in  this  smile  of  friendly 
welcome,  in  the  boyish  mixture  of  eagerness 
and  deference  of  voice  and  word,  there  was  some 
thing  sane  and  wholesome;  something  that 
quieted  her  excitement  and  at  the  same  time  made 
her  fear  seem  a  little  ridiculous.  Somehow  it 
took  her  away  altogether  from  this  garish  world 
of  confetti  and  made  her  think  of  a  sparkling 
early  morning  and  a  southwest  wind  riffling 
over  the  sand-dunes.  She  had  an  impulse  to 
take  the  outstretched  hand  in  a  good  grip  and 
sit  down  beside  the  man  who  held  it  out  to  her. 

She  was  sure  she  did  not  know  him.  He  was 
completely  a  stranger,  and  his  friendly  greeting, 
pleasant  as  it  was,  could  be  nothing  after  all  but 
a  fresh  trick  of  the  carnival.  Still  she  was  not 
sorry  that  she  had  smiled  back  at  him,  and  she 
rewarded  his  invitation  with  a  not  unfriendly 
shake  of  the  head  as  she  turned  away.  At  that 
he  spoke  again,  lower,  and  so  swiftly  that  the 
words  trod  on  each  other's  heels. 

"  You've  only  a  minute  left.  Don't  be  fright 
ened,  but  sit  down  here.  Quick." 


42  Comrade  John 

The  violence  of  the  surprise  drenched  her  face 
with  color.  With  an  impulse  of  obedience  that 
was  wholly  automatic,  she  seated  herself  in  the 
chair  he  pointed  out.  Then  she  turned  and 
looked  at  him  curiously.  The  eager,  buoyant 
confidence  was  still  in  his  face;  there  was  even 
a  half  smile  about  his  big,  expressive  mouth. 
But  she  saw  something  else  that  made  her  feel 
sure  that  there  was  more  than  the  mere  folly 
of  the  carnival  involved  in  the  adventure.  He 
was  looking  at  her,  too,  but  not  personally  nor 
exclusively.  His  thoughtful  eyes  seemed  to  be 
taking  her  in  merely  as  a  part  of  the  scene. 

" That's  better,  but  it's  not  good  enough  yet." 
His  eyes  strayed  from  her  to  some  one  else,  an  ab 
surd  figure  of  a  woman  in  a  screaming  magenta 
gown,  snowed  up  in  blue  confetti,  a  gaudy,  Bon 
Marche  cloak  and  a  big  bushy  hat.  Then  they 
came  back  to  her. 

"I  want  you  to  give  me  your  hat;  your  hat 
and  your  coat  too.  I  want  them  for  a  present." 

It  was  the  third  complete  surprise  that  he  had 
dashed  over  like  so  many  buckets  of  water,  since 
their  acquaintance  had  begun,  considerably  less 
than  a  minute  ago.  This  time  the  deeper  curi 
osity  in  her  eyes  took  fire. 


The  Man  on  the  Table 


43 


"I  know  you're  in  earnest,"  she  said  slowly, 
"but  I  don't  in  the  least  understand  why.  You 
don't  know  me  and  —  well,  I  don't  know  you, 
either." 

"Not  each  other's  names.  But  you  do  know 
that  I'm  the  other  sort  from  Tommy  Hollister. 
And  I  know  that  you  don't  belong  up  on  top  of 
that  float  —  a  six  hours'  Boulevard  sensation. 
Won't  you  give  me  your  hat  and  coat  ?  Quickly  ?  " 

The  light  in  her  face  seemed  to  flare  up  at  that, 
and  her  lips  parted.  "  Is  that  what  they  wanted  ?  " 
she  said,  quietly  enough.  "But  they  won't  take 
me  if  I  don't  want  to  go.  I'm  safe  here  with  you." 

"Don't  look  up;  but  listen.  They'll  be  in 
over  the  tables  in  a  minute.  It's  a  Paris  crowd, 
and  it's  only  waiting  for  a  spark.  You  have 
to  handle  it  like  guncotton.  It's  not  dangerous 
if  you  know  how,  and  it's  my  trade  to  handle 
crowds.  I'll  help  you  with  your  coat.  Don't 
stand  up.  Don't  look  up." 

She  disobeyed  him;  for  just  one  moment  she 
looked.  Then,  with  bowed  head  and  shaking 
fingers,  she  began  unpinning  her  hat.  The  crowd 
she  had  been  a  part  of,  the  endless  stream  of  star 
ing,  good-humored  persons  had  transformed  itself. 
The  close-packed  inner  ring,  which  was  all  she 


44  Comrade  John 

could  see,  holding  on  by  main  force  against  the 
grinding,  milling  compression  that  was  going  on 
behind;  the  flushed  faces  and  spirituous  eyes, 
the  palpable  excitement  that  mounted  higher  and 
higher  as  the  physical  pressure  increased;  the 
sense  of  unmeasured  and  uncontrollable  physical 
strength  which  the  ineffectual  rise  and  fall,  here 
and  there,  of  the  white  batons  of  the  police  only 
made  the  more  terrifying  —  it  all  proclaimed  one 
fact.  They  ceased  to  be  many,  that  crowd,  had 
become  one,  and  this  one  a  sort  of  monstrous 
deformation  of  humanity. 

When  she  lowered  her  eyes  they  were  unsteady 
with  panic.  At  that  moment  the  only  stable 
thing  in  her  universe  was  John  Chance's  hands 
on  her  shoulders,  waiting  till  she  had  got  off  her 
hat  to  strip  the  coat  back  from  them. 

A  moment  later,  with  the  hat,  a  marvel  of 
Brussels  point  and  sable,  balanced  on  his  fingers, 
and  the  long  white  coat  over  his  arm,  Chance 
sprang  up  on  the  table. 

Once  there  he  became  curiously  deliberate. 
He  had  shifted  the  focus  of  the  mob  from  the  girl 
to  himself  and  he  continued  to  hold  it.  Stand 
ing  there,  grave  in  manner,  serious  voiced,  he 
made  the  mob  feel  that  he  knew  exactly  what  he 


The  Man  on  the  Table  45 

was  going  to  do  next  and  that  they  did  not,  and 
that  they  must  wait  just  a  minute  longer  to  see. 
Before  saying  anything,  he  turned  the  coat  about 
on  his  arm  to  give  him  access  to  a  large  inside 
pocket,  from  which  he  then  drew  its  contents,  — 
a  spare  pair  of  gloves,  a  handkerchief,  and  a  small 
card-case.  These  he  stowed  away  in  a  pocket 
of  his  own.  Then  he  addressed  the  crowd  at 
large. 

"Madame  my  wife — "  he  began,  but  at  that 
the  crowd  interrupted  him  with  a  roar  of  derision. 
He  waited  in  smiling  good  humor  for  a  chance 
to  go  on,  and  presently  they  gave  it  to  him.  If 
his  next  words  were  to  be  as  amusing  as  these, 
they  would  be  worth  waiting  for. 

"  Madame  my  wife  returns  these  beautiful 
garments,  these  borrowed  plumes,  to  the  true 
queen  of  the  carnival,  to  whom  they  belong. 
And  since  it  grows  late,  and  the  little  ones  will 
be  waiting,  she  asks  the  return  of  her  own  cloak 
and  hat.  With  ten  thousand  thanks."  And 
at  that  he  bowed,  seriously  and  respectfully, 
to  the  lady  in  magenta. 

The  effect  was  galvanic.  The  woman's  two 
escorts  sprang  to  their  feet  as  though  stung,  and 
her  own  face  shone  purple  through  the  rouge. 


46  Comrade  John 

But  in  her  eye  Chance  saw  the  thing  he  had 
been  counting  on,  the  betraying  glint  of  avarice. 
The  crowd  was  roaring  again,  and  under  cover 
of  the  noise  he  spoke  to  her.  You'll  do  my  wife 
a  great  favor  if  you'll  take  it,  and  if  you  don't, 
the  crowd  will.  If  you'll  give  me  yours,  and  pin 
this  on  your  head,  you'll  be  safe  with  it.  But 
you  must  do  it  quickly." 

With  just  one  more  glance  at  the  Brussels  lace, 
she  began  unpinning  her  own  hat,  dismissing 
her  husband's  horrified  protest  with  a  mere  shrug 
of  her  ample  shoulders.  In  another  moment 
the  exchange  was  effected,  and  the  attention  of 
the  crowd  transferred  to  the  vivacious  domestic 
squabble  it  entailed.  With  the  bushy  hat  in  his 
hand  and  the  Bon  Marche  cloak  over  his  arm, 
Chance  climbed  down  from  the  table,  while  the 
crowd,  with  its  fixed  idea  somewhat  out  of  focus, 
uttered  uncertain  murmurs. 

But  at  this  moment  a  new  voice  was  heard, 
one  that  had  no  uncertainty  about  it.  The 
speaker  stood  by  Chance's  vacant  chair,  a  good- 
looking  young  Frenchman,  dressed  in  clothes 
that  had  evidently  been  made  across  the  Channel. 
His  soft  hat  had  a  tilt  to  it,  his  slender  mustaches 
a  finely  pointed  upward  twist ;  he  carried  a  little 


The  Man  on  the  Table  47 

rattan  for  a  cane,  and  one  of  his  eyes  blinked 
behind  a  monocle.  He  was  talking  English  that 
appeared  more  broken  than  it  really  was,  and 
addressing  his  remark  to  the  girl. 

"Madame  no  doubt  prefers  the  homage  of  her 
husband  to  any  other?"  he  ventured  politely. 
Her  face  confirmed  his  suspicion  that  she  had  not 
understood  the  purport  of  her  latest  escort's  ora 
tion,  and  he  went  on  swiftly. 

"Mademoiselle,  we  students  would  like  to  ex 
press  our  admiration  and  present  our  homage, 
too,  our  respectful  homage,  to  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world.  The  throne  we  have  built 
for  you  is  not,  indeed,  worthy,  but  it  is  our  best, 
and  it  will  not  —  will  not  make  you  ridiculous, 
as  this  gentleman  seems  to  have  it  in  mind  to  do." 
With  that  he  turned,  and  she  did  too,  upon  John 
Chance,  standing  there  with  the  bushy  hat  in 
his  hand  and  the  bargain  cloak  over  his  arm. 
They  smelled  strong  of  cheap  perfume  even  at 
a  distance,  and  the  broad  collar  of  the  cloak  was 
greasy.  At  that  a  new  emotion  showed  in  her 
face,  —  angry,  flat  rebellion. 

"Get  my  own  back,  please,"  she  said,  as  im 
periously  as  if  she  had  been  a  queen  indeed. 
"I  will  not  wear  these;  I  will  not  be  ridiculous. 


48  Comrade  John 

And  if  they  want  me  to  be  queen  of  the  car 
nival—" 

She  was  blazing  now  as  she  had  blazed  when 
she  walked  by  the  cafe  with  Tommy  Hollister, 
and  the  people  had  mounted  their  tables  and 
cheered  her.  She  dazzled  Chance,  but  at  the 
same  time  she  betrayed  the  Frenchman  into  a 
serious  mistake.  Without  giving  her  time  to 
finish  the  sentence,  his  role  of  respectful  meekness 
falling  from  him  like  a  garment,  he  sprang  upon 
the  table  and  began  shouting  to  the  crowd  in  a 
voice  that  had  the  wire  edge  of  reckless  triumph 
in  it.  She  did  not  understand  the  words,  but 
the  tone  of  them  and  the  sound  they  drew  from 
the  crowd  turned  her  pale  again.  There  was 
fear  as  well  as  defiance  in  her  next  words  to 
Chance. 

"We  sail  for  home  to-morrow  morning.  I 
can't  buy  anything  else  to  wear,  and  —  and  I 
won't  go  ashore  at  New  York  in  those." 

Chance  answered  her  in  a  tone  so  matter- 
of-fact,  so  free  from  every  trace  of  emphasis, 
that  his  words  had  the  staggering  effect  of  a  blow. 

"If  you  will  tell  me  where  you  can  buy  a  new 
immortal  soul  to-morrow,  you  may  have  your  coat 
and  hat  again." 


The  Man  on  the  Table  49 

For  a  moment  she  stared  at  him;  then  with 
a  shudder  she  buried  her  head  in  her  arms,  and 
stayed  so  until  roused  again  by  his  voice.  "Can 
you  pin  this  on  yourself  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I'd  better 
not  try  to  touch  you." 

She  looked  up  and  held  out  her  hands  for  the 
bushy  hat.  He  dropped  the  cloak  across  her 
knees  and  stepped  up  on  the  table  behind  the 
Frenchman,  interrupting  him  with  a  tap  on  the 
shoulder.  Again  it  was  obvious  that  he  had  some 
thing  to  say,  and  even  the  orator  waited  to  see 
what  it  would  be. 

"Volunteers  are  wanted,"  he  announced,  with 
a  grin.  "Twenty  strong  men  to  unpin  a  hat  from 
the  unwilling  head  of  one  lady  and  fasten  it  upon 
the  unwilling  head  of  another.  Are  there  any 
engineers  present?  Any  sappers  or  miners? 
Any  volunteers  whatever  for  a  work  of  especial 
difficulty?" 

He  turned  to  the  young  man  on  the  table 
beside  him.  "You,  monsieur,  will  you  not  be 
the  first?  A  mere  matter  of  some  lace  and  a 
few  pins,  and  twenty  strong  men  to  help  you?" 

The  crowd  roared  at  this,  and  their  many- voiced 
derision  betrayed  the  young  man  into  an  exhi 
bition  of  temper.  He  flushed,  and  his  hand 


50  Comrade  John 

tightened  as  he  drew  back  his  rattan  with  a  hint 
of  menace. 

It  was  not  much,  but  it  served.  It  violated 
flagrantly  the  spirit  of  the  day,  and  it  gave  John 
Chance  the  victory.  He  laughed,  and  playfully 
tossed  a  handful  of  confetti  over  his  opponent. 

"This  is  the  carnival,"  he  said,  "not  the  Four 
teenth  of  July.  You  shall  play  at  the  fall  of  the 
Bastile  next  summer." 

Then  for  the  last  time  he  turned  to  the  magenta 
lady  and  emptied  the  last  of  his  confetti  over  her. 
"Long  live  the  queen!"  he  cried.  "The  true 
queen  of  the  carnival." 

Deliberately  he  climbed  down  from  the  table 
and  seated  himself  beside  the  girl.  She  was  no 
longer  lambent,  no  longer  the  great  cathedral 
candle,  burning;  she  was  just  a  shaken,  ex 
hausted  young  girl,  her  beauty  in  temporary 
eclipse  under  a  bargain  cloak  and  a  big  bushy 
hat  with  drifts  of  confetti  over  it. 

"Waiter,"  said  Chance,  "bring  a  fresh  glass 
of  coffee.  This  of  madame  my  wife  has  become 
cold." 


CHAPTER   III 

LOOKING  GLASS   COUNTRY 

So  far  as  the  mob  was  concerned,  the  adventure 
was  over.  All  the  girl  had  to  do  now,  he  told  her, 
was  to  sit  tight  and  drink  her  coffee  as  if  she  liked 
it.  The  crowd  was  transformed  back  to  what 
it  had  been  an  hour  before,  an  endless  stream 
of  idle,  good-humored  folk,  exhibiting  no  more 
concern  over  this  girl  who  had  so  wrought  upon 
them  and  the  man  who  had  just  beaten  them 
than  over  any  other  couple. 

Over  his  own  coffee  Chance  was  carrying  on 
a  desultory  monologue  as  nearly  as  might  be 
in  the  vein  he  would  have  taken  if  he  and  this 
acquaintance  of  ten  vivid  minutes  had  been,  in 
stead,  old  married  people,  a  little  tired  after  a 
long  holiday  together  and  mildly  impatient  to 
get  home.  All  at  the  same  time,  in  the  back  of 
his  head,  he  was  casting  about  for  some  plan  for 
disposing  of  her,  and  with  his  eyes  was  automati 
cally  surveying  the  crowd. 


52  Comrade  John 

But  it  was  not  many  minutes  before  one  face 
out  of  the  stream  that  flowed  by  brought  his 
widely  dispersed  wits  into  instant  focus, —  the  face 
of  Tommy  Hollister.  He  stood  just  where  the 
girl  had  stood,  and  was  staring  at  her,  a  little 
in  drink,  but  not  far  enough  to  have  forgotten  that 
he  had  abandoned  her  to  the  crowd,  nor  quite 
to  dare  speak  to  her  until  a  glance  of  recognition 
should  give  him  some  sort  of  leave.  And  before 
that  happened,  before  she  raised  her  eyes,  Chance 
spoke  himself,  blandly,  half  smiling,  in  much 
the  manner  and  in  the  same  tongue  in  which 
he  had  addressed  the  crowd. 

"Talk  to  me,  and  in  French,  if  you  have  any 
thing  to  say.  If  you  speak  to  her  or  say  a  word 
in  English  to  either  of  us,  I  will  knock  you  down 
and  call  the  police.  I  don't  know  which  of  us 
they'd  arrest,  but  I  guess  it  would  be  you.  Any 
how,  you'd  have  the  black  eye." 

At  Hollister 's  sullen  reply  (evidently  he  agreed 
in  Chance's  forecast  of  the  result  of  speaking 
in  English,  for  it  was  in  the  argot  of  the  "Boule' 
Miche'"  that  he  answered),  at  the  sound  of  his 
thick,  syruppy  voice,  the  girl  shuddered  visibly. 
Somehow  just  the  sound  of  it  interpreted  much 
that  she  had  been  seeing  and  hearing  all  day, 


Looking  Glass  Country  53 

uncontaminated,  because  unconscious  of  con 
tamination.  Then,  as  once  before,  she  felt 
John  Chance's  hand  on  her  shoulder,  resting  there 
a  moment  in  a  casual,  matter-of-fact  sort  of 
caress  while  he  tilted  his  chair  back  on  its  hind 
legs. 

He  was  speaking  now  himself,  and  though  her 
finishing-school  French  was  of  no  use  in  trans 
lating  what  he  said,  she  was  pleasantly  aware 
that  a  clean- cutting  edge  underlay  his  good- 
humored  manner.  She  caught  the  contemptuous 
staccato  in  his  use  of  the  second  person,  singular, 
and  when  the  speech  ended  as  a  snapper  ends 
a  whiplash,  with  a  "Va-t-en!"  she  knew  that 
Tommy  Hollister  was  dismissed,  finally  and 
forever,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  to  his  own 
world,  whence  an  indiscreet  letter  of  introduction 
and  a  credulous  aunt  had  conjured  him. 

The  little  dash  of  pleasurable  excitement  about 
the  episode  had,  for  a  moment,  a  tonic  effect. 
She  turned  to  the  man  beside  her,  the  man  whose 
name  she  did  not  know  and  of  whose  identity 
she  had  no  hint,  the  man  whose  hand  still  rested 
half  affectionately  on  her  shoulder,  smiled  and 
said,  "Thank  you."  The  tone  was  easy,  gracious, 
without  emphasis  and  without  embarrassment, 


54  Comrade  John 

and  it  caused  Chance  to  turn  rather  red  and 
take  his  hand  away. 

"You  spoke  in  French  so  that  I  couldn't 
understand,  didn't  you?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  redder  still.  "  Gracious  !  you  didn't, 
I  hope?" 

She  smiled  again  over  his  open  alarm,  and 
answered  that  she  had  not.  "Not  the  words,  at 
least." 

But  she  was  a  long  way  from  stable  equilib 
rium  yet ;  it  was  only  a  minute  before  the  pendu 
lum  swung  back  again.  She  shivered  and  pressed 
her  bare  palms  against  her  eyes,  with  a  whispered 
exclamation  of  half-sick  physical  disgust. 

"He's  not  worth  it,"  said  Chance.  "A  poor 
thing,  to  be  sure,  but  there  are  thousands  like 
him  in  this  town,  and  no  one  of  them  will  ever 
have  a  chance  to  speak  to  you  again.  You're 
wasting  enough  good  current  on  him  to  make 
a  flash  of  lightning,  when  he's  not  really  worth 
more  than  a  rap  with  a  fly-killer." 

"Yes,  he's  gone,"  she  assented  lifelessly,  and 
then  added,  with  a  shaky  laugh,  "and  he's  the 
one  person  in  Paris  that  I  know  by  name." 

Chance  took  this  rather  tremendous  announce 
ment  without  betraying  any  surprise;  in  fact, 


Looking  Glass  Country  55 

surprise  is  hardly  the  name  for  the  sensation  it 
gave  him.  It  piqued  his  curiosity  and  it  pleased 
him  by  adding  a  difficulty  to  a  problem  which 
he  was  beginning  to  fear  would  turn  out  to  have 
a  perfectly  commonplace  solution. 

Who  in  the  world  could  she  be?  An  Ameri 
can  clear  to  the  surface,  innocent  of  Continental 
veneer;  evidently  of  his  own  class,  or  more  ex 
actly,  a  cut  or  two  above  the  class  into  which  he 
had  drifted,  —  the  sort  of  girl  his  mother  would 
have  approved  of, — a  girl  with  a  bloom  so  delicate 
that  the  first  touch  of  a  rude  hand  would  rub  it 
off.  And  this  girl  sat  beside  him  in  front  of  a 
Boulevard  caf£  on  Mardi  Gras,  her  only  author 
ized  protector  the  man  he  had  just  dismissed. 
Chance  would  have  enjoyed,  rather,  an  oppor 
tunity  to  free  his  mind  to  whatever  idiot  it  was 
who  had  abandoned  her  to  such  hands. 

She  made  an  effort  to  get  her  former  mo 
mentary  manner  back  again,  but  without  much 
success.  "That  was  true,"  she  said,  " — about 
my  not  knowing  any  one  else  in  Paris,  but  it  isn't 
so  bad  as  it  sounds.  You  mustn't  bother  about 
me  any  more.  I  shall  never  forget  what  you've 
done  for  me,  and  some  day  I  shall  tell  you  better 
—  but  won't  you  leave  me  alone  now?  I  shall 


56  Comrade  John 

get  on  —  somehow."  She  paused  to  get  control 
of  her  voice  again,  said,  "Please  —  please  go — " 
and  stopped  there  only  because  it  would  not 
obey  her  further. 

"Pretty  soon,"  he  said.  "Neither  of  us  is  in 
a  hurry." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  in  a  hurry ;  he  must 
find  some  sort  of  plan  at  once  if  he  was  to  be  of 
any  further  service  to  her.  And  she  needed  help 
badly.  To  get  on  "somehow,"  to  set  about  find 
ing  her  own  way  out  of  the  woods,  was  some 
thing  she  would  doubtless  be  competent  enough 
to  do  once  she  was  fairly  poised  again  on  her 
feet.  But  it  was  something  she  was  obviously 
unfit  to  try  just  now,  shaken  as  she  was,  over 
wrought,  swaying  back  and  forth  between  a 
lambent  excitement  and  a  slack,  nerveless  de 
pression.  She  would  not  let  him  sit  there  think 
ing  very  much  longer,  either,  and  he  thought  fast. 

There  were  plenty  of  the  right  sort  of  good 
American  home  folk  who  would,  in  the  natural 
course  of  things,  be  pressing  their  latch-keys  upon 
him  as  soon  as  they  knew  he  was  in  town,  who 
would  be  really  pleased  to  take  the  girl  in  for  as 
long  as  might  be  necessary.  She  could  have  her 
choice  of  a  temporary  mother  or  sister  or  maiden 


Looking  Glass  Country  57 

aunt,  just  about  as  she  pleased;  and  then  there 
was  the  Girls'  Club  over  in  the  rue  Chevreuse. 
But  he  felt  an  instinctive  certainty  that  allowing 
him  to  present  her  at  any  one  of  these  places, 
along  with  such  explanations  as  might  seem  ap 
propriate,  was  precisely  the  last  service  in  the 
world  that  she  would  accept  from  him.  And 
he  felt  pretty  sure,  moreover,  that  she  would  not 
allow  him  a  single  miss,  that  the  very  first  sug 
gestion  of  his  which  failed  to  carry  her  would 
put  an  end  to  his  hold  upon  her  and  his  power 
to  help  her. 

It  was  the  shabby  cloak  she  wore  that  again 
came  to  his  assistance.  "Those  clothes,"  he 
said,  "are  a  bit  depressing  to  me,  and  I  guess 
they  affect  you  in  about  the  same  way.  I  gave 
away  your  others,  and  I'm  not  going  to  leave 
you  stranded  with  these.  You  can't  get  any 
more  to-night  because  every  store  in  Paris  is 
shut  tight,  but  I  can,  and  I'm  going  to." 

Without  waiting  for  a  sign  of  assent,  and 
equally  without  excuses  or  explanations,  he  left 
his  seat  and  went  into  the  cafe.  His  only  errand 
was  to  order  a  cab  brought  up  to  the  side  entrance 
in  the  rue  Auber,  a  thing  he  could  have  ac 
complished  as  well  from  his  place  beside  her, 


58  Comrade  John 

only  that  this  method  gave  her  more  chance  to 
wonder  and  less  to  question  him. 

When  he  returned  it  was  to  say,  "  Here's  our 
cab,  and  a  horse  that  really  goes  on  all  four  legs, 
which  is  pretty  good  luck  in  Paris.  You're 
ready,  aren't  you?" 

"But  I'm  not  going  with  you,"  she  said.  "I 
won't  be  left  on  anybody's  hands,  and  I  won't 
let  you  bother  about  me  any  more.  Won't  you, 
please,  just  leave  me  alone?  I  shall  get  on  all 
right  —  somehow." 

"We  can  talk  about  that  in  the  cab.  It  will 
be  more  comfortable  and  less  conspicuous  than 
standing  here.  You're  not  afraid  to  trust  me 
so  far,  are  you?" 

It  was  not  much  of  a  resistance  she  had  made, 
but  the  best  she  was  capable  of.  With  a  nod  of 
acquiescence  she  obeyed  his  gesture,  preceded 
him  through  the  cafe  and  out  to  the  cab  in  the 
rue  Auber.  They  drove  off  in  silence.  So  long 
as  he  made  no  explanation,  suggested  no  plan, 
simply  left  her  to  the  grateful  dark,  the  comfort 
of  the  soft  cushions  and  the  soothing,  swaying 
motion  of  the  cab  as  it  sped  over  the  asphalt, 
she  was  content  to  remain  inert,  ignorant  of 
what  lay  before  her. 


Looking  Glass  Country  59 

She  did  not  know  where  they  were  going;  she 
had  a  glimpse  of  the  river  over  the  rampart  of 
one  of  the  bridges,  a  long  view  of  the  tapering 
lights  of  a  quiet,  dignified  boulevard,  and  then 
their  way  threaded  a  tangle  of  narrow,  twisting 
streets,  and  brought  them  up  at  last  in  the  bottom 
of  a  mean  and  rather  ill- smelling  impasse,  the 
predominant  odor,  the  left-over  smell  of  a  laundry, 
being  explained  by  a  large  black  and  white  sign, 
LAVOIR,  across  the  blank  wall  at  the  foot  of 
the  street. 

"Back  in  five  minutes,"  was  all  he  said  when 
the  cab  stopped,  and  with  that  he  disappeared 
through  an  open  gate  and  down  a  dark  little 
alley. 

Any  idea  she  might  have  entertained  of  taking 
this  opportunity  to  slip  away  and  escape  was 
dispelled  by  a  single  look  at  her  surroundings. 
The  wretched  little  shops,  the  groups  of  hulking 
figures  in  the  street,  whose  gestures  seemed  so 
bellicose  and  whose  voices  so  menacing,  the  weird, 
strident  cries  of  an  old  woman  peddling  Camem- 
bert  cheese,  the  effect  of  all  this  was  to  make  her 
shrink  as  far  back  as  she  could  into  the  corner  of 
the  cab  and  to  make  John  Chance's  five  minutes 
seem  very  long  indeed. 


60  Comrade  John 

She  was  not  much  surprised,  though,  on  sight 
of  him  coming  back,  to  see  that  he  had  a  woman's 
hat  in  his  hand  and  a  woman's  coat  over  his  arm. 
He  had  said  he  would  get  them,  and  she  had 
come  to  take  him  for  granted.  But  she  uttered 
a  little  exclamation  of  genuine  pleasure  when 
he  put  them  into  her  hands;  they  had  the  feel 
of  her  own  clothes ;  they  were  her  kind  of  clothes 
unmistakably. 

"The  hat  will  look  well  on  you,"  he  said,  "and 
I  think  the  coat  will  fit.  You're  about  the  same 
dimensions.  Anyhow,  they  take  off  the  curse  of 
the  others;  putting  those  dreadful  things  on 
you  was  the  first  act  of  downright  desecration 
I  ever  committed,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  the 
last." 

He  helped  her  out  of  the  bargain  cloak,  wrapped 
it  around  the  bushy  hat  which  she  had  taken  off, 
and  laid  the  bundle  on  the  floor  of  the  cab  while 
he  helped  her  into  the  trim-lined,  military-looking 
coat  he  had  brought  for  her.  While  she  was 
pinning  on  the  new  hat,  he  took  up  the  discarded 
bundle  and  eyed  it  with  a  thoughtful  smile; 
then  he  took  a  look  about  the  impasse.  A  short- 
legged,  stodgy-looking  man,  with  a  good  deal  of 
bourgeois  importance  about  him,  was  coming 


Looking  Glass  Country  61 

down  the  sidewalk  ahead  of  his  meagre,  ill- 
dressed  wife.  Him  Chance  accosted,  seriously, 
and  with  an  elaborate,  commanding  courtesy. 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  he  said,  and  without 
another  word  placed  the  bundle  in  the  man's 
helpless,  outstretched  hands.  He  lifted  his  hat, 
sprang  with  a  kind  of  cat-like  quickness  to  his 
seat  beside  the  girl,  and  as  he  shouted  an  address 
to  the  grinning  cabman  they  wheeled  smartly 
around  and  clattered  out  of  the  impasse. 
Through  the  back  window  of  the  cab  they  could 
see  the  man  still  standing  there,  the  bundle  still 
in  his  hands,  his  outraged  dignity  venting  itself 
on  his  ill-dressed  wife.  When  they  passed  the 
next  light,  Chance  looked  at  the  girl  beside  him. 
There  was  good  natural  color  in  her  face,  and 
the  remains  of  a  smile. 

She  rebelled  again,  though,  when  the  cab 
pulled  up  before  what  she  discovered  to  be  a 
restaurant,  and  he,  after  stepping  out  himself, 
intimated  that  she  was  to  alight. 

"I'm  not  nearly  so  silly  as  I  was,"  she  said, 
"but  I  honestly  don't  want  anything  to  eat. 
Please  get  it  for  yourself,  and  let  me  wait  for  you 
out  here.  I  don't  believe  I  could  even  look  a 
dinner  in  the  face." 


62  Comrade  John 

There  came  a  glint  of  mischief  into  his  eyes. 
"You  needn't,"  he  said;  "I  promise  I  won't 
ask  you  to.  But  won't  you  share  two  cups  of 
coffee  with  me?" 

"  That's  not  much  to  do  —  for  you,"  she  said. 

The  room  felt  pleasantly  warm  after  so  many 
hours  in  the  sharp  February  air;  in  fact,  it  was 
only  now  that  she  realized  how  cold  she  had  been. 
She  took  off  her  gloves,  and  it  was  his  glance 
that  directed  her  attention  to  the  blue  at  the 
bases  of  her  finger  nails. 

"This  coffee  does  taste  good,"  she  admitted. 
"I'm  glad  you  made  me  come  in." 

He  gave  an  order  to  the  waitress.  "I  wish  I 
could  understand  French,"  she  said.  "There 
were  two  words  then  that  sounded  grotesquely 
like  plum  pudding.  I  wonder  what  they  meant. 
I  suppose  they  never  heard  of  one  of  those  over 
here,  but  it  would  be  good,  wouldn't  it?  " 

And  when  it  came  in,  crackling  triumphantly 
amid  blue  flames,  she  could  not  quite  keep  back 
an  exclamation  of  delight.  It  was  set  down 
between  them,  and  she  held  out  her  cold  hands 
and  warmed  them  over  the  little  blaze  it  made. 
Presently  she  noticed  that  the  waitress  had  put 
down  two  plates  before  him. 


Looking  Glass  Country  63 

"I  wish  I  could  have  some,"  she  said  plain 
tively.  "It  smells  so  good.  But  you  can't  offer 
me  any.  You  promised." 

"I  promised  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  look  a  dinner 
in  the  face.  You're  not.  You're  going  to  ap 
proach  it  stealthily  from  behind." 

Her  eyes  widened.  "You're  not  going  to 
make  me — "  she  began,  but  Chance  interrupted 
her  with  another  order  to  the  waitress.  And 
at  sight  of  the  start  of  amazement  with  which 
this  order  was  received,  her  face  took  an  ex 
pression  to  match  Chance's  own,  grave,  indif 
ferent,  and  her  eyes,  full  of  smiling  mockery, 
accepted  the  challenge  in  his. 

Deliberately,  punctiliously,  they  ate  that  dinner 
backward,  course  by  course,  salad,  roast,  vege 
table,  entree,  fish,  soup,  hors-d'cevre,  behaving 
over  it  as  any  two  quiet,  well-bred,  matter-of- 
fact  young  people  would  be  expected  to  behave 
over  their  dinner.  Their  talk,  until  they  had 
finished  the  hors-d'cevre  of  radishes  and  caviar, 
was  quite  fragmentary  and  inconsequential. 
Then  she  said,  "You're  going  to  smoke,  aren't 
you?" 

He  hesitated.  "Not  just  before  dinner,  I 
guess." 


64  Comrade  John 

"You  didn't  smoke  right  after,"  she  retorted. 
"Anyway,  that  would  be  carrying  the  joke  too 
far.  And  it  will  feel  more  natural  if  you  do." 

She  was  quite  right  about  it,  and  he  assented. 
She  let  him  get  his  cigar  well  alight,  then  settled 
back  a  little  in  her  chair,  as  if,  somehow,  the  pre 
liminaries  were  finally  out  of  the  way,  and  the 
real  thing,  whatever  it  might  turn  out  to  be, 
about  to  begin. 

She  began  by  checking  off  on  her  fingers. 

"I've  run  off  with  a  man  I  don't  know,  to  a 
place  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  whose  clothes 
I  have  on,  and  I've  just  eaten  my  dinner  back 
ward.  I  feel  as  if  I  must  have  gone  through  the 
looking  glass." 

"Why  that?"  he  asked  rather  suddenly. 

"It  was  what  Alice  did,  you  know;  I  suppose 
I  thought  of  it  because  some  one  was  telling  me 
about  a  place  called  that  at  the  Pittsburg  fair 
last  summer,  and  I  thought  it  would  have  been 
fun  to  see  it.  But  this  is  nicer;  this  is  the  real 
thing.  I  never  knew  there  was  such  a  country, 
and  I  don't  a  bit  want  to  go  back  to  the  other 
—  the  country  where  you  always  know  just  what 
to  expect  and  have  to  take  things  called  conse 
quences.  I've  a  lot  of  questions  to  ask;  and 


Looking  Glass  Country  65 

the  first  one  is,  whose  pretty  clothes  are  these,  and 
why  did  you  go  into  that  dreadful  alley  to  get  them, 
and  are  they  bought  or  borrowed  or  stolen  ?  " 

"I'll  answer  no  questions,"  he  said,  "except 
in  the  way  of  barter." 

She  nodded,  smiling.  "How  many  does  that 
one  of  mine  exchange  for?  Never  mind;  I'll 
pay." 

"You  might  have  seen  those  clothes  on  the 
boulevard  this  afternoon;  I  did.  They  belong 
to  the  famously  pretty  wife  of  a  pretty  famous 
portrait  painter.  She  has  the  best-looking  clothes 
of  any  American  on  the  left  bank.  She  buys 
them,  that  is;  she  never  has  them,  for  they're 
always  being  borrowed  to  be  painted.  She 
had  three  gowns  in  the  Salon  last  year,  and  one 
of  them  got  an  H.  C.,  and  was  bought  for  the  Lux 
embourg.  She's  been  very  much  set  up  about 
that  ever  since." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  rather  dubiously. 
"Have  a  lot  of  models  been  wearing  these  to  be 
painted  in?" 

"Oh,  they're  quite  new;  she  just  got  them 
home  to-day,  herself." 

"And  she  loaned  them  to  you?  What  did 
you  have  to  tell  her?" 


66  Comrade  John 

"Just  that  I  wanted  to  borrow  them.  She 
said  she  had  never  had  any  of  her  gowns  treated 
architecturally  before,  and  seemed  quite  pleased." 

"You're  an  architect?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Not  by  a  long  way,"  he  told  her.  "But  I 
played  at  it  once." 

"Well,  why,  if  they  have  money  enough  to  buy 
such  clothes,  do  they  have  to  live  in  that  dread 
ful  alley?" 

"Down  that  alley  is  a  perfect  burrow  of  in 
teresting  people,  as  thick  as  rabbits.  They  live 
there  because  they  like  it,  and  there's  no  one  to 
tell  them  they  mustn't." 

"How  much  better  it  would  be,"  she  said, 
with  hot  young  scorn,  "if  they  all  had  to  live  in 
a  row  of  brownstone  houses  and  do  exactly 
what  a  lot  of  stupid  people  who  don't  know  any 
better  think  they  ought  to.  —  Well,  now  I'll 
answer  your  first  question;  it  ought  to  have 
been  mine,  too,  if  I'd  been  polite.  My  name 
is  Cynthia—" 

He  interrupted  quickly  enough  to  forestall  the 
next  word.  "And  mine  is  John,"  he  said,  "but 
we  mustn't  tell  each  other  any  more  than  that." 

She  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  in  simple 
astonishment,  then  with  a  grave  sort  of  curiosity. 


Looking  Glass  Country  67 

"Why?"  she  asked.  " You've  done  enough 
for  me  to  deserve  to  know  who  it  was  for,  and 
I've  let  you  do  so  much  I  ought  to  be  told  who 
did  it." 

"If  I  were  to  let  you  tell  me,  I'd  have  to  go 
into  a  pigeonhole  with  all  the  other  young  men 
who've  done  you  a  small  service  for  the  sake  of 
scraping  your  acquaintance ;  I  guess  that  pigeon 
hole  is  fairly  full  already,  and  I  like  more  room, 
myself.  And  then,  if  you  don't  know  my  last 
name,  you'll  have  to  call  me  John,  and  I  shall  call 
you  Cynthia  —  and  shall  remember  you  that 
way." 

She  smiled  faintly  over  that,  but  it  was  to  the 
idea  that  went  before  that  her  next  words  re 
ferred.  "I  don't  imagine  that  you've  ever  found 
yourself  crowded  in  a  pigeonhole,  or  that  you 
ever  will.  But  what  is  your  first  question,  if  you 
don't  want  to  know  who  I  am?" 

"How  Tommy  Hollister  ever  got  to  know 
you,  and  who  it  was  —  oh,  not  by  name  —  who 
abandoned  you  to  his  protection  this  afternoon. 
It  was  an  act  of  incredible  folly,  whoever  did  it." 

The  words  were  uttered  without  emphasis  or 
color,  just  as  they  had  been  in  the  afternoon 
when  he  had  spoken  of  her  immortal  soul,  and 


68  Comrade  John 

they  stung  like  the  unlooked-for  touch  of  the 
spur. 

"It's  I  who  am  the  incredible  fool,  then," 
she  said  with  an  edge  of  anger  in  her  voice. 
"But  it  happened  naturally  enough.  We  sail 
for  home  to-morrow,  and  my  aunt  can't  sleep  on 
the  train,  so  she  went  on  to  Cherbourg  this  noon. 
I  wanted  to  see  the  carnival,  so  I  stayed  with  Mr. 
Hollister,  and  was  to  take  the  boat  train  to-night. 
I  didn't  exactly  like  him,  but  he  was  introduced 
to  us  in  a  perfectly  regular  way,  by  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Pole,  Mr.  Moberly  Pole,  the  portrait  painter. 
He  painted  a  portrait,  several  portraits,  of  me, 
and  when  we  were  coming  over  he  said  he  would 
see  that  Mr.  Hollister  looked  after  us  while  we 
were  here.  And  he  has  been  very  nice  to  us ;  very 
attentive,  that  is,  —  he  meant  to  be  nice.  Oh, 
it  was  foolish,  dreadfully  foolish,  but  it  wasn't 
incredible,  if  you  only  knew.  I  shall  always 
remember  you  and  go  on  thanking  you  for  taking 
me  away  from  him  and  sending  him  off  to  where 
I'll  never  see  him  again,  but  — " 

She  broke  off  there  with  a  rather  startled  look 
which  puzzled  Chance  by  resolving  into  an  ex 
pression  of  half-humorous  dismay,  the  humor 
coming  to  the  surface  and  the  dismay  fading 


Looking  Glass  Country  69 

out  during  the  little  pause  that  ensued  before  she 
spoke  again.  When  she  did,  her  eyes  had  a  glint 
of  mocking  defiance  in  them,  too. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me,"  she 
said,  "to  have  found  this  Looking- Glass  Country. 
I've  been  looking  for  it  all  my  life.  You  live 
in  it,  and  you  don't  know  what  the  other  is  like, 
the  silly  people  you're  expected  to  make  friends 
with,  the  silly  things  you're  expected  to  do,  stupid, 
proper,  empty  things.  That  was  what  I  broke 
away  from  this  afternoon  —  just  for  a  breath  — 
I  needed  it.  And  now,  in  spite  of  my  '  incredible 
folly,'  I've  found  what  I've  been  looking  for 
always.  And,  please,  I'm  not  going  away.  I 
don't  have  to  say  I  won't  because  I  just  thought 
of  a  reason  why  I  can't.  That  was  why  I  laughed. 
Mr.  Hollister  has  my  purse  with  my  money  and 
my  tickets  and  my  letter  of  credit  —  everything. 
So  I  couldn't  possibly  go  to-night,  anyway.  I'll 
have  to  telegraph  Aunt  Augusta  to  come  back." 

Chance  looked  at  his  watch  deliberately, 
absently  rather,  and  then  up  at  her,  smiling  in  a 
manner  singularly  free  from  mockery,  and  shook 
his  head.  "Incredible  folly,  just  the  same," 
he  said,  "though  I  don't  think  it's  you  who  are 
the  incredible  fool.  But  who  in  the  world  is 


yo  Comrade  John 

responsible  for  you?  Who  is  it  you  have  to 
mind?" 

"  To  mind  ?  "  she  repeated  incredulously.  "  Like 
a  child?  But  I'm  grown  up;  I  don't  have  to 
mind  anybody."  A  ripple  of  amusement  came 
over  her  face.  "  You've  made  me  do  more  things 
this  one  afternoon  than  any  one  else  has  —  since 
I  was  little  —  ever  so  little." 

"Everybody  has  to  mind,  grown  up  or  not," 
said  Chance.  "If  they  don't  have  to  mind  a 
person  who's  responsible  for  them,  they  have  to 
mind  a  thing  they're  responsible  for.  But  you're 
not  grown  up.  You  haven't  a  job." 

He  had  a  stump  of  a  pencil  in  his  hand  and  had 
been  scrawling  little  decorations  in  the  margin 
of  the  wine  list  while  he  talked.  He  looked  up 
now  and  found  that  same  deeper  curiosity 
which  he  had  noted  in  his  first  glance  at  her 
alight  in  her  eyes. 

"Tell  me  more  about  that,"  she  commanded. 
"  Tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"Why,  this  is  the  nub  of  it,"  he  said,  and  his 
unconscious  pencil  began  making  a  little  star 
in  the  middle  of  the  paper;  "when  you're  a  child, 
you're  a  part  of  some  one  else's  job,  and  you  have 
to  mind  that  person  because  he's  responsible  for 


Looking  Glass  Country  71 

you.  But  when  you've  a  job  of  your  own,  when 
there's  a  piece  of  work  that  you  have  to  mind 
because  it's  up  to  you,  then  you're  grown  up. 
I've  known  boys  of  twelve  who  were,  and  men  of 
forty  who  weren't.  But  either  way  you've  got 
to  mind  something,  or  you're  on  the  way  to  ever 
lasting  smash." 

"But  how  can  you  obey  people  who  don't  know 
anything,"  she  protested  hotly;  "people  who 
haven't  it  in  them  to  make  you  obey,  or  how  can 
you  obey  things  that  aren't  worth  doing  ?  —  like 
all  the  things  I've  ever  had  in  my  life?  I've 
never  had  a  better  reason  for  doing  a  thing  than 
that  it  was  what  everybody  was  supposed  to  do. 
That's  why  I  want  to  stay  here  in  the  Looking- 
Glass  Country." 

"For  just  this  evening,"  Chance  said  soberly, 
"you  can  go  on  obeying  me."  He  clasped  his 
hands  and  pushed  them  forward  on  the  table. 
"I'm  on  a  holiday,  but  I  took  a  job  this  afternoon, 
the  job  of  taking  you  away  from  Hollister,  and 
from  that  crowd  of  young  savages  who  meant  to 
take  you  away  from  him,  and  handing  you  back 
safe" — he  paused  there;  then  went  on,  steadily 
and  gravely,  "handing  you  back  as  good  as  you 
were  this  morning  —  to  whoever  it  was  who  was 


72  Comrade  John 

responsible  for  you  and  had  failed  in  his  duty. 
I  took  the  job;  and  I'm  not  through  with  it  yet." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her  nor  she  at  him. 
Her  hands  were  clasped,  but  under  the  table,  for 
they  were  quivering  like  every  other  part  of  her. 
He  had  paused  again,  but  after  a  moment  went 
steadily  on. 

"If  this  were  a  looking-glass  country  I'd  be 
inclined  to  let  you  stay  in  it,  but  it's  not.  Even 
that  side-show  faker  at  Pittsburg  was  nearer  it. 
A  man  could  go  there  and  ride  in  the  scenic 
railway  or  shoot  the  chutes  and  get  the  thrill  of 
danger  and  abandonment  without  the  conse 
quences.  Somebody  that  he  didn't  know  about 
was  responsible  for  his  safety;  that  was  some 
body's  job.  He  was  free  to  yell  and  catch  his 
breath  and  be  as  reckless  and  adventuresome  as 
he  pleased.  Whenever  he'd  had  enough  he  could 
stop,  and  when  he  was  tired  he  could  go  away. 
He'd  had  two  or  three  hours  in  a  place  where, 
apparently,  there  were  no  such  things  as  con 
sequences.  But  here  — 

"  People  come  here,"  he  went  on,  and  now  he 
looked  up  at  her,  "people  without  jobs,  who 
think  this  is  a  looking-glass  country.  It  looks 
like  it,  but  you  get  what's  coming  to  you  here 


Looking  Glass  Country  73 

just  as  surely  as  in  a  steel  mill.  Tommy  Hoi- 
lister  was  hunting  for  a  looking-glass  country, 
and  if  you  asked  him  now  where  he  lived,  and 
he  were  capable  of  telling  you  the  truth,  which 
he  isn't,  he'd  tell  you  he  lived  in  Hell." 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table  and 
smiled  at  her  with  the  same  look  of  almost  boyish 
deference  that  she  had  seen  in  his  face  when  he 
had  invited  her  to  sit  down  at  his  table  in  front 
of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  "We've  just  comfortable 
time  for  the  boat  train,"  he  said. 

She  was  holding  tightly  the  edge  of  the  table 
with  both  hands.  "I  can't  go,"  she  protested; 
"I  haven't  any  money  or  ticket  or  anything." 

He  laughed.  "  That's  my  job,"  he  said  easily. 
"That  doesn't  concern  you  at  all."  Then,  so 
bering  suddenly,  he  reached  across  the  table 
and  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  It  was  a  real 
grip;  a  little  tighter  and  it  would  have  hurt, 
and  his  eyes  all  the  while  held  hers,  calmly, 
coolly,  with  almost  a  smile  in  behind  them,  some 
where.  When  she  remembered  that  moment 
afterward,  it  seemed  almost  that  he  had  pulled 
her,  physically,  up  over  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 
"The  big  part  of  the  job  is  yours,"  he  said,  " — 
and  you've  done  it." 


74  Comrade  John 

The  grip  of  his  hands  slackened,  became  a  sort 
of  friendly  caress ;  then  he  released  her  and  came 
around  behind  her  chair  to  help  her  on  with  her 
coat. 

Five  minutes  before  the  hour  for  the  train  to 
leave  they  stood  on  the  platform  outside  Cynthia's 
compartment.  Her  hand-bag  had  been  extracted 
from  the  consigne  where  it  had  been  deposited 
earlier  in  the  day;  she  had  her  tickets  and  a 
handful  of  John  Chance's  bank-notes. 

"We  shall  have  to  give  up  our  mystery,"  she 
said,  "because  I  shall  have  to  know  where  to 
send  the  money  —  and  the  clothes."  Then  she 
laughed,  for  she  caught  a  fleeting  look  which  told 
her  that  this  necessity  had  taken  him  unawares. 
He  smiled  too. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said.  Then,  "Let  me 
have  one  of  your  cards.  Hand  it  to  me  face 
down,"  he  added,  as  she  was  getting  it  out  of  her 
card-case.  He  pencilled  on  the  back  of  it :  — 

Monsieur  Jean 

9  Impasse  du  Maine,  Paris. 

"You  can  send  the  clothes  there,"  he  said. 
"The  concierge  knows  me,  and  will  let  me  have 
them.  As  for  the  money  —  where  do  you  bank  ? 
Monroe's?" 


Looking  Glass  Country  75 

She  nodded.  He  began  feeling  in  his  pockets. 
"I  want  something  we  can  tear  in  two,"  he  ex 
plained. 

She  drew  an  American  dollar  bill  out  of  her 
card-case.  "I've  been  carrying  this  around  to 
remind  me  of  home,"  she  told  him.  "Will  it 
do?" 

"  Just !"  he  said.  He  tore  it  across  and  handed 
one-half  of  it  to  her.  "You  can  send  it  with  a 
draft  for  the  amount  to  Monroe's  and  tell  them 
to  deposit  it  to  the  account  of  the  man  who  pre 
sents  the  other  half.  —  And  while  you're  about  it, 
you'd  better  tell  them  to  stop  payment  on  the 
letter  of  credit.  That's  better  than  trying  to 
get  it  back  from  Hollister." 

It  was  time  she  was  getting  into  the  train. 
He  helped  her  in.  The  guards  were  already 
locking  the  doors. 

"Good-by,"  he  said. 

She  held  out  both  hands  to  him,  seemed  to 
catch  at  his  and  hold  fast.  "I  don't  know  what 
I'm  going  to  do,"  she  said.  "I  shan't  have  you 
to  —  to  make  me  mind,  and  there's  nobody 
else." 

"Get  a  thing  to  mind.  That's  better  than  a 
person.  Get  a  job." 


76  Comrade  John 

."Yes,"  she  said. 

He  sprang  down  from  the  train  and  it  pulled 
slowly  out  of  the  station. 

He  paused  in  the  entrance  to  light  a  big  cigar; 
then  swung  out  gayly  across  the  square.  His 
holiday  had  begun  well. 


CHAPTER   IV 

ELLEN 

BUT  holidays  end;  and  April  found  John 
Chance  back  in  this  country  and  deep  in  the  job 
which  he  had  agreed  to  mind  for  a  good  many 
months  to  come.  Stein  had  thrown  an  unex 
pected  interest  into  this  job  by  asking  him  to  get 
some  part  of  the  work  done,  to  get  up  as  brilliant 
and  telling  an  effect  as  he  possibly  could,  in  time 
for  the  "Toil  and  Triumph"  convention,  which 
was  to  be  held  at  Beechcroft  on  the  tenth  and 
eleventh  of  June. 

To  reach  Beechcroft  from  New  York  you  left 
the  West  Shore  Railroad  at  a  point  where  a  rock- 
walled  creek  joined  the  Hudson,  took  the  Kinder- 
kill  Valley  Railroad  to  a  subdued  little  village 
known  as  Broadrib's  Station,  and  there,  were 
you  locally  known  as  a  "toiler,"  you  entered  a 
dusty,  three-seated  mountain  wagon  for  the  final 
stage  of  the  journey.  But  if,  instead  of  alighting 
at  Broadrib's  Station,  you  had  gone  on  eight  or 
77 


78  Comrade  John 

ten  miles  farther  up  the  Kinderkill  Valley,  and 
had  glanced  out  the  car  window,  you  would 
perhaps  have  observed,  on  a  shed  beside  the 
track,  the  words,  "Excelsior  Siding."  The  name 
was  not  commemorative  of  Longfellow's  poem; 
it  indicated  that  here  was  the  shipping- point  for 
a  small  excelsior  factory. 

From  the  Geological  Survey  Map,  which, 
mounted  on  linen,  was  always  in  a  convenient 
pocket,  Chance  had  learned  that  Excelsior  Siding 
was  much  nearer  the  spot  where  he  was  to  live 
and  work  for  the  next  four  months  than  was 
Broadrib's  Station.  It  had  been  regarded  as 
a  less  convenient  place  of  approach  because  of 
the  mountain  ridge  which  separated  Beechcroft 
Valley  from  the  valley  of  the  Kinderkill.  The 
map  told  him,  however,  that  the  old  wood  road, 
which  entered  the  upper  Beechcroft  by  way 
of  the  Mt.  William  notch,  while  steep,  was  not 
impracticable  for  teams.  This  gave  him  what  he 
wished,  to  begin  with,  —  a  base  of  supplies  which 
was  not  on  the  railroad  and  not  in  a  settlement; 
and  it  also  gave  him  what  was  as  good  as  a  private 
road  for  his  line  of  communications. 

Accordingly,  he  built  a  power  plant  at  the 
siding,  and  laid  a  cable  through  the  notch  for 


Ellen  79 

the  transmission  of  the  electric  current  to  his 
lamps  at  Beechcroft.  He  had  finally  got  Stein's 
permission  for  those  lamps.  Directly  in  the 
notch,  two  miles  from  Beechcroft,  stood  the  shops 
and  shanties  of  his  workmen.  And  midway 
down  the  road  were  the  rough  shacks,  sided 
with  pine  slabs  and  roofed  with  hemlock  bark, 
which  were  occupied  by  himself,  Henry  Bau- 
mann,  his  chief  draughtsman,  and  Bill  Hemen- 
way.  Here  they  could  dress  for  either  direction, 
in  tunic  and  sandals  for  Beechcroft,  in  working 
clothes  or  business  suit  for  the  camp,  Excelsior 
Siding,  or  New  York.  Here  also  was  the 
draughting  and  model  room.  There  were  stables, 
with  working  and  driving  horses,  at  both  the  sid 
ing  and  the  camp.  Telephone  wires  connected 
the  siding  with  the  camp,  the  model  room,  and 
the  temple  site,  with  an  extension  down  the 
valley  to  the  home  of  Hobbema,  Stein's  "  general 
overseer." 

On  a  sunny  afternoon,  late  in  April,  John 
Chance,  —  bareheaded,  barearmed,  barelegged, 
clad  in  knee-length  gray  tunic  and  gray  sandals,  — 
sat  on  a  projecting  ledge,  far  up  on  the  hillside, 
gazing  down  into  the  upper  valley.  "It  won't 
do,"  he  was  thinking,  as  he  puffed  slowly  at  a 


8o  Comrade  John 

brier  pipe.  "The  whole  valley  is  the  wrong 
shape.  It  is  too  narrow  and  gloomy  —  it  is 
all  shadows,  even  at  this  time  of  day.  I've  got 
to  change  it  —  brighten  it  up  —  make  it  smile." 
He  drew  a  pencil  from  the  pocket  of  his  tunic, 
tore  off  a  broad  strip  of  birch  bark  from  the  tree 
at  his  back,  and  began  making  desultory  free 
hand  sketches. 

The  location  of  the  buildings  was  a  fixed 
quantity;  they  were  to  stand  on  the  natural 
terrace  which  roughly  encircled  the  little  valley 
at  a  height  of  thirty  to  fifty  or  sixty  feet  above 
the  stream.  It  was  the  narrow,  winding  gorge 
through  which  the  stream  came  tumbling  down 
that  bothered  him.  It  could  only  be  widened 
and  straightened  into  conventional  terms  at  a 
prohibitive  cost;  and  yet  there  it  lay,  a  gloomy 
little  jungle  in  the  very  centre  of  his  picture. 

Suddenly  a  question  came  into  his  eyes;  then 
they  lighted  up  with  the  answer.  He  began  to 
sketch  rapidly,  almost  nervously,  on  a  fresh  strip 
of  bark.  His  eyes  sought  the  notch,  which  par 
tially  separated  the  upper  and  lower  valleys, 
and  he  nodded.  Finally,  after  a  long  survey 
of  the  scene,  he  slipped  the  roll  of  bark  into  his 
pocket,  and  struck  off  down  the  old  lumber  trail 


Ellen  81 

toward  his  shack.  The  problem  was  solved. 
It  had  been  a  pretty  problem,  of  its  kind;  and 
it  was  with  a  feeling  of  keen  satisfaction  that  he 
tramped  through  the  fresh  green  woods,  leaping 
the  mossy  logs  that  lay  across  the  trail,  and  plung 
ing  through  the  little  thickets  of  nettles  and  black 
berries  which  had  encroached  upon  it. 

Henry  Baumann  was  at  work  on  the  large 
clay  model  of  the  new  Beechcroft  when  Bill 
Hemenway  dropped  in  to  pass  the  time  of  day. 
The  superintendent  of  construction  wore  the 
valley  costume.  The  draughtsman  had  hidden 
the  greater  part  of  his  person  behind  an  apron, 
which  was  smeared,  like  his  hands,  with  the  bluish 
clay.  There  were  flecks  of  clay  in  his  hair  and 
in  his  full  brown  beard. 

"I  should  think,"  he  was  saying,  "that  these 
people  would  know  that  they  were  getting  fooled." 

Hemenway,  a  wiry  little  man,  shook  his  head. 
"Not  for  a  minute,  Henry.  You  don't  know 
the  human  bird.  And  you  in  the  show  business." 

"But  when  they  see  our  men  up  here,  how  can 
they  think  they  are  doing  the  work  themselves?  " 

"If  I've  learned  anything  these  last  ten  years, 
Henry,  it's  that  facts  don't  count  with  the  crowd." 

"What  is  it  that  counts,  then?" 


82  Comrade  John 

"Looks.  You  can  do  anything  you  like  so 
long  as  you  keep  your  face  straight.  It's  losing 
your  face  that  knocks  you  under.  Those  near- 
toil  fakers  think  they  built  this  place.  Do  you 
suppose  they  made  those  five  miles  of  road  to 
Broadrib's  Station?  Never.  It  takes  sweat  to 
make  a  road,  and  they  ain't  sweating  much. 
Do  you  suppose  they  built  the  houses  and  shops  ?" 

"  I  thought  so." 

"Never.  The  only  building  they  ever  put  up 
was  a  hen-house  for  that  man  Hobbema.  And 
have  you  seen  it  ?  It's  going  to  blow  down  in  the 
next  high  wind.  They  only  make  the  dinky 
things.  When  there's  real  work  wanted,  Stein, 
or  the  other  faker,  hires  some  real  men  to  do  it. 
That  don't  bother  'em  any.  They  go  on  talking 
about  the  flowering  of  beauty  through  toil. 
It  ain't  the  things  of  this  life  that  counts,  Henry. 
It's  the  names  of  things.  Barnum's  the  only 
real  philosopher  that's  happened  along  lately 
—  Barnum  and  Stein.  Stein  knows  that  the 
poor  fools  want  to  be  lied  to,  when  they're  sick 
of  themselves." 

"Off  course,"  said  Baumann,  musingly;  "I 
am  not  a  religious  man.  One  off  them  looks 
like  another  to  me." 


Ellen  83 

" One  of  what?" 

"One  off  religions." 

"You  don't  call  this  a  religion?" 

"Yess,  I  do.     It  iss." 

"Hardly,"  said  Hemenway.  But  a  troubled 
expression  came  into  his  face. 

" You  are  one  off  them,"  said  Baumann.  "You 
wear  their  clothes." 

Hemenway  was  looking  down  at  his  tunic. 
The  troubled  expression  deepened. 

"That  iss  where  you  are  funny  —  odd," 
Baumann  continued.  "You  are  a  religious  man. 
Maybe  it  iss  the  names  off  things  that  counts 
with  you.  What  counts  with  me  iss  my  family, 
and  my  insurance,  and  the  money  in  the  savings 
bank." 

Suddenly  the  tunic  was  pulled  up  over  Hemen- 
way's  head,  stripped  off  his  arms,  and  thrown 
flying  into  a  corner.  The  superintendent  was 
aroused,  and  he  stood  forth  in  all  the  dignity 
of  five  feet  and  five  inches  of  underclothing, 
spidery  arms,  and  blazing  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  boys?"  asked  a  quiet  voice. 

Both  turned,  and  saw  John  Chance,  who  had 
paused  midway  between  the  door  and  his  roll- 
top  desk.  The  Beechcroft  costume  set  him  off 


84  Comrade  John 

very  well.  His  face  and  neck,  and  his  bare  arms 
and  shapely  legs,  were  tanned  an  even  brown 
by  the  spring  sun. 

"Now  look  here,  Mr.  Chance,"  cried  Hemen- 
way,  "is  this  thing  a  religion,  or  ain't  it?" 

"Certainly  it  iss  a  religion,"  said  Baumann, 
rubbing  his  hands  on  his  apron. 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know,  Mr.  Chance. 
Is  Henry  right,  or  ain't  he?" 

"It  iss  a  religion,  and  'Toil  and  Triumph'  iss 
their  Bible." 

"You  hear  what  Henry  says.  Now  I've  stuck 
by  you,  Mr.  Chance,  and  I  haven't  a  word  of 
complaint  about  the  way  you've  treated  me. 
You  tell  me  to  ride  the  wild  elephant,  or  to  bring 
down  the  bronze  lady  from  Madison  Square 
tower,  or  to  go  out  and  blow  up  your  touring 
car,  and  I  do  it  to-night.  I  don't  ask  questions, 
and  I  don't  send  somebody  else.  I  do  it.  But 
you've  never  asked  me  to  change  my  religion, 
Mr.  Chance.  I'm  a  Methodist,  and  I'm  going 
to  stay  a  Methodist.  If  that  circus  dress  means 
that  I  ain't  a  Methodist  any  longer,  it  stays  right 
there,  and  I  go  out." 

He  paused  for  breath. 

"It  iss  a  religion,"  said  Henry  Baumann. 


Ellen  85 

"Is  it,  or  ain't  it?"  cried  Bill  Hemenway. 

Chance  shook  his  head  good-humoredly.  "I 
never  thought  of  calling  it  a  religion,"  he  said. 
And  observing  that  his  superintendent  was  still 
in  doubt,  he  added,  "I  think  of  it  as  a  show." 

He  seated  himself  at  the  desk,  glanced  at  the 
pile  of  correspondence  which  was  awaiting  his 
attention,  and  pressed  a  button.  In  a  moment 
his  stenographer,  a  young  man,  entered,  note 
book  in  hand.  Chance  took  up  the  letters,  and 
either  dictated  a  reply  to  each  or  jotted  down  a 
memorandum  on  the  margin.  When  the  ste 
nographer  had  withdrawn,  with  a  full  evening's 
work  before  him,  he  took  up  the  sheets  which  the 
timekeeper  and  the  accountant  had  turned  in, 
and  made  a  note  or  two  on  his  scratch  pad. 
Next  he  tipped  back  in  his  swivel  chair,  pad  on 
knee,  and  jotted  down  a  number  of  items  which 
he  hung  up  on  the  hook  marked  "Purchasing 
Agt,"  on  the  wall  beside  the  desk. 

These  matters  disposed  of,  he  swung  around, 
and  asked  Hemenway  and  Baumann  to  draw  up 
chairs. 

"I  have  a  job  for  you  boys,"  he  said,  —  "a 
real  job,  this  time.  We're  going  to  floor  the 
upper  valley." 


86  Comrade  John 

The  two  assistants  looked  at  each  other. 
"Floor  the  upper  valley—"  mused  Bill.  "With 
jasper,  maybe." 

Chance  smiled.  "No,  Bill,  —  with  a  looking- 
glass  —  with  a  lake.  We're  going  to  throw  a 
dam  across  the  notch,  just  above  Hobbema's 
house.  No  one  is  to  know  of  this  until  the  morn 
ing  of  June  tenth.  We  shall  have  nearly  six 
weeks  for  preparation,  but  the  actual  work  of 
throwing  the  dam  together  will  be  done  at  the 
last  moment.  We'll  give  them  a  little  surprise. 
Now  how  fast  can  you  build  that  dam?" 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"What  material?"  asked  the  superintendent. 
"Concrete?" 

Chance  shook  his  head.  "  That  would  take  too 
long.  We  shall  use  timber  and  planking,  weighted 
down  with  stone.  I'll  have  you  start  in  pretty  soon 
building  masonry  abutments  on  each  side,  fifty  feet 
apart.  They  will  appear  to  be  buttresses  for  the 
promenade.  You  will  put  spme  men  at  work  on  the 
hillside — the  south  hillside,  above  the  dam — get 
ting  out  rock  and  breaking  it  up ;  and  have  an  aerial 
trolley  ready  so  that  you  can  run  the  cables  across 
after  dark  and  slide  the  stone  down.  "Now,  how 
much  time  shall  you  want  for  the  work?" 


Ellen  87 

"It  could  be  done,"  observed  the  draughtsman, 
"in  four  or  five  days." 

"We  can  beat  that,"  Hemenway  said,  slowly 
and  thoughtfully.  "With  everything  ready,  as 
you  say,  Mr.  Chance,  I  could  throw  that  dam 
together  in  two  days.  With  a  little  luck  to  help, 
it  might  be  done  in  thirty-six  hours." 

"I'll  give  you  twelve  to  fifteen  hours,"  said 
Chance. 

"All  right,  sir." 

"Plan  to  start  in  at  six  o'clock  sharp,  in  the 
evening  of  June  eighth." 

"Build  her  at  night?" 

"Yes.  That  will  give  from  the  morning  of 
June  ninth  to  the  morning  of  June  tenth  for  the 
water  to  run  in.  By  six  or  eight  o'clock  on  the 
morning  of  June  tenth,  I  want  the  lake  brimful." 

"All  right,  sir." 

"Work  up  the  details  between  you.  I  am 
ordering  the  materials  now.  Well,  good  night, 
boys."  ' 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Chance." 

When  they  had  left  the  room,  the  two  men 
looked  at  each  other. 

"He'd  say  it  just  that  way,  Henry,  if  he  was 
asking  us  to  drain  out  the  East  River  before 


88  Comrade  John 

supper  so  he  could  run  his  car  over  to  Brooklyn 
without  getting  caught  in  the  bridge  crush." 

The  draughtsman  thrust  his  pencil  through  the 
thick  hair  above  his  ear,  and  leading  the  way 
into  his  sleeping-room,  seated  himself  on  the  bed. 
"He  iss  a  genius,  iss  John  Chance.  He  sees 
pictures  —  vishions.  He  flies  to  them  —  he  iss 
impatient  off  men  who  haff  their  feet  on  the 
ground." 

"You're  talking  about  me,  now,  eh?" 

"I  am  talking  about  John  Chance.  I,  too, 
see  the  picture  he  sees.  It  is  beautiful." 

"All  right,  Henry.  While  you're  seeing  the 
pictures,  I'm  going  to  put  in  about  three  hours' — " 
he  glanced  at  his  watch  —  "about  four  hours' 
sleep.  It's  my  job  to  build  this  here  picture  so 
everybody  else  can  see  it,  and  my  feet  stay  right 
on  the  ground  until  she's  done.  If  I  was  to 
go  up  in  the  air  now,  there'd  be  a  holy  show  at 
Upper  Beechcroft.  Do  you  mind,  Henry,  the 
time  the  building  fell  in  at  Atlanta,  a  week  before 
the  opening,  and  John  Chance  sent  for  me. 
We  put  up  a  sign,  '  Nothing  daunted  —  Will 
open  in  Ten  Days.'  You  painted  the  sign,  and 
the  boss  and  I  put  it  up.  And  we  did  it  —  oh, 
we  did  it." 


Ellen  89 

"Yess,"  repeated  the  draughtsman  after  him, 
"we  did  it." 

"Well,  good  night  to  you,  Henry."  And  with 
this  the  superintendent  went  to  his  room,  set 
his  alarm  clock,  and  threw  himself  on  the  bed. 

A  few  moments  later  the  sound  of  wheels  came 
in  through  the  open  windows,  a  horse  was  pulled 
up  at  the  door,  and  after  a  moment  the  pur 
chasing  agent,  a  despondent-looking  young  man 
who  wore  his  hat  on  the  side  of  his  head,  entered 
the  draughting  room.  He  greeted  John  Chance 
with  a  half-perceptible  wave  of  the  hand  and 
inclination  of  the  head,  and  took  down  the  order 
slips  from  the  hook. 

Item  (he  read),  6  self-dumping  buckets  for  aerial 
trolley.     (Do    not    let    Green-Hackett    Co. 
figure  on  this.     They  delayed  the  last  job.) 
Item.    Pair  of  swans  (extra  large  —  white). 
Item.    Do.     Blue  herons. 
Item.    1 60  timbers —  12"  x  12"  x  20'. 
Item.    72  planks  (undressed)  —  2"  x  12"  X  i6'S". 
Item.    First  chair  made  by  Morris. 
Item.    3  bbls.  hard  grease.     (Our  claim  of  leakage 
on  last  order  not  yet  allowed.     See  to  this.) 
Item.    The  oldest  bell  and  the  oldest  pulpit  in 
any    of    the    California    mission    churches. 


QO  Comrade  John 

Must  be  attested  by  priest  or  caretaker  and 
by  mayor  of  nearest  town. 

Item.    Coyote  Bill's  Wild  West  Show  seized  by 
sheriff  last  week  at  Paterson,  N.  J.   Buy  canvas 
enclosure  at  the  sale,  also  dressing- tent. 
Item.    Gondola,  with  gondolier  (must  have  tenor 
voice). 

The  purchasing  agent,  like  Baumann  and 
Hemenway,  had  been  with  John  Chance  in  all 
his  enterprises,  and  had  long  ago  arrived  at  the 
state  of  mind  where  nothing  his  employer  might 
say  or  do  could  surprise  him. 

"Looks  like  it  was  going  to  be  quite  a  show 
here,"  he  observed,  turning  the  order  slips  over 
languidly. 

"It  is,"  Chance  replied  cheerfully.  "Oh, 
by  the  way,  Frank,  I'll  give  you  a  blanket  order 
to  rush  everything." 

The  purchasing  agent  nodded,  and  left  the 
room.  But  before  driving  back  to  the  siding  he 
poked  his  head  in  at  Baumann's  door. 

"Know  of  any  Morris  in  the  chair  business, 
Henry?" 

The  draughtsman  shook  his  head,  and  looked 
at  the  order.  "It  may  be  that  he  means  William 
Morris,"  he  observed. 


Ellen  91 

"Who's  he?" 

"He  was  an  English  writer,  but  I  think  he 
made  some  chairs." 

The  purchasing  agent  turned  the  slip  over  in 
his  hand  and  gazed  at  the  back  of  it,  while  his 
other  hand  shoved  his  hat  still  farther  to  one  side 
and  absently  rumpled  his  hair.  Then,  without 
further  questioning,  he  left  the  room;  and  a 
moment  later  Baumann  heard  the  scraping  of  the 
buggy  wheel  as  he  turned  about  in  the  narrow 
road  and  headed  back  to  catch  the  night  train 
South. 

There  was  still  an  hour  before  the  supper  bell 
would  ring,  and  Chance,  laying  his  watch  before 
him  on  the  desk,  settled  down  to  think.  Before 
he  had  dwelt  very  long  on  the  Beechcroft  propo 
sition,  his  imagination  had  taken  fire.  It  had 
puzzled  him  at  first  that  a  big,  presumably  sane 
Wall  Street  financier  should  ally  himself  with  such 
a  man  as  Stein,  but  he  was  now  beginning  to 
understand.  As  a  proposition,  the  thing  stirred 
him  up,  made  his  eyes  dance.  There  were  simply 
no  limits  to  the  potential  profits  in  it.  Beside 
it,  the  show  business  paled  away,  faded  out. 
Where  an  amusement  park  would  be  lucky  to 
get  two  dollars  from  a  man,  a  Beechcroft  could 


92  Comrade  John 

take  everything  he  had,  sell  him  a  tunic,  and  have 
his  labor  ever  afterward  for  nothing.  As  for 
Stein,  while  probably  the  financier  kept  a  pretty 
close  eye  on  him,  there  was  no  board  of  auditors 
to  poke  around  among  his  books,  —  there  was 
no  committee  of  stockholders  to  ask  questions 
and  get  out  injunctions.  It  was  beautiful. 
Stein  was  welcome  to  the  glory  and  the  profits. 
All  Chance  asked  was  the  opportunity  to  play  that 
tremendous  hand,  and  play  it  right.  And  that 
opportunity  seemed  now  to  be  his. 

He  proposed  to  do  it  with  something  which 
would  have  the  effect  of  a  miracle,  —  the  wonder 
ful,  glowing,  uplifting  picture  of  the  new  Beech- 
croft,  built  by  inexperienced  hands,  the  sponta 
neous  flowering  of  the  prophet's  dream.  Stein's 
attitude  on  the  miracle  question  disturbed  him 
not  at  all  —  that  was  where  the  beauties  of  human 
inconsistency  entered  in.  He  could  trust  Stein 
to  deny  blandly  that  the  marvellous  new  Beech- 
croft  was  anything  more  than  a  working-out  of 
the  Beechcroft  idea.  The  only  danger  lay  in  the 
possibility  of  some  reporter  finding  out  that  it 
was  John  Chance,  of  Atlanta,  and  Omaha,  and 
St.  Louis,  and  Pittsburg,  who  was  really  re 
building  Beechcroft,  and  stumbling  on  a  hint  of 


Ellen  93 

the  fact  that  he  had  been  hired  to  do  it.  That 
would  blow  up  the  miracle;  it  might  even  blow 
up  Stein  and  Beauty  through  Toil.  But  that 
was  the  hazard  of  the  game,  and  he  accepted  it 
with  a  chuckle.  What  made  the  whole  thing 
really  interesting,  what  gave  it  the  twist  he  rather 
enjoyed,  was  that  he  had  a  very  little  over  six 
weeks  to  do  it  in. 

A  large  part  of  the  construction  work  he  would 
not  begin  at  all  until  after  the  convention.  But 
the  temple  and  its  adjoining  buildings  must  go  up; 
and,  as  they  should  rise  above  the  foundations, 
the  surrounding  scaffolding  would  be  enclosed 
in  canvas  until  the  morning  of  June  tenth,  when 
the  picture  would  be  unveiled.  All  this  would 
be  the  more  easy  of  accomplishment  because  the 
dwellings  and  shops  of  the  older  settlement  lay 
farther  down  the  valley,  where  the  slopes  were 
not  so  rugged.  It  was  the  narrow  little  bit  at  the 
head  of  the  valley,  where  the  cascades  were,  — 
hardly  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  it,  — 
that  Chance  had  chosen  for  practically  all  of 
his  work.  There  was  but  one  building  here, 
a  cottage  that  nestled  among  the  foliage,  and  it 
would  have  to  go.  After  supper,  accordingly, 
carrying  an  unlighted  square  "art"  lantern, 


94  Comrade  John 

with  a  candle  inside  and  holes  punched  through 
the  sides,  he  swung  off  down  the  dusky  wood 
road  to  see  Hobbema  about  it. 

Hobbema,  the  general  overseer  of  Beechcroft 
life  and  activity,  lived  in  a  house  which  was 
.second  only  to  Stein's  in  size.  Like  all  the  struc 
tures  in  the  valley,  it  was  built  and  furnished  along 
the  lines  which  those  persons  who  talk  about 
"arts  and  crafts"  call  "artistic."  The  local 
intrigues  had  always  been  focussed  on  Hobbema, 
and  in  consequence  he  looked  like  a  man  who  did 
not  sleep  well  of  nights. 

Chance  walked  briskly  down  the  valley  road 
past  the  outlying  cottage  and  the  dark  shops. 
He  met  one  of  Stein's  "Beechcroft  Guards," 
an  alert  country  boy  with  well-knotted  biceps 
and  calves  and  with  the  blue  band  of  authority 
over  one  shoulder,  passed  the  time  of  night  with 
him,  then  turned  in  at  the  house  of  the  overseer. 
He  swung  the  big  brass  knocker,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  was  ushered  in  by  a  soulful-eyed  little  maid, 
evidently  one  of  those  Beechcrofters  who,  in  lieu 
of  money,  were  giving  domestic  service.  Hob 
bema  would  have  liked  to  keep  an  English  butler 
and  a  retinue  of  servants,  like  Stein.  But  that 
little  inconsistency  was  permitted  only  to  the 


Ellen  95 

prophet.  Chance  walked  into  the  long,  low- 
ceiled  living-room,  and  settled  himself  comfort 
ably,  knowing  from  a  former  experience  or  two 
that  the  overseer,  being  a  small  soul,  would  keep 
him  waiting  for  a  while;  and  finding  a  flabbily 
bound  copy  of  Rossetti's  poems  at  his  elbow,  he 
picked  it  up  and  skimmed  the  pages. 

"Good  evening,  Comrade,"  said  a  thin  voice; 
and  he  looked  up  to  encounter  the  nervous, 
shifting  eyes,  and  the  narrow  face  and  forehead 
of  Samuel  L.  Hobbema,  ex-preacher,  ex-college 
professor,  ex-lecturer,  ex-real-estate  broker,  who 
was  known  in  the  Beechcroft  vernacular  as 
"Comrade  Samuel."  Neither  he  nor  his  wife 
ever  addressed  Chance  by  his  full  name,  because 
they  did  not  know  it;  indeed,  their  evident  dif 
ficulty  in  placing  him  and  his  relations  with  the 
prophet  was  one  of  the  humorous  little  facts  that 
made  the  necessity  of  talking  with  them  at  all 
not  unendurable  to  him. 

The  overseer  was  soon  followed  by  his  wife, 
who  was  taller  than  he,  and  certainly  not  younger. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Comrade?"  asked 
Hobbema. 

Chance  settled  back  in  the  big  Morris  chair, 
and  gave  himself  a  moment  for  thought.  He 


g6  Comrade  John 

would  have  to  do  business  pretty  steadily  with 
the  overseer  for  some  time  to  come,  and  so  he 
deliberately  put  by  the  desire  he  always  felt,  when 
he  talked  with  him,  to  handle  him  brusquely. 
From  the  depths  of  the  chair  he  spoke,  unaware 
that  he  was  exploding  a  bomb  in  the  bosom  of 
the  Hobbema  family. 

"Who  lives  in  that  cottage  in  the  upper  valley  ?  " 

Both  started  perceptibly,  and  looked  at  him. 
Then  Mrs.  Hobbema  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  hus 
band,  and  he  stared  out  for  a  moment  through 
the  small-paned  window  into  the  twilight.  And 
then,  as  the  question  was  still  resting  unanswered 
on  the  air,  the  overseer  turned  and  made  an 
effort  to  overcome  his  embarrassment. 

"You  mean  —  ah— " 

"Where  the  road  turns,"  said  Chance. 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other,  the 
one  furtive,  the  other  stern. 

"A  young  woman  lives  there,"  said  Hobbema. 
"  She  is  known  as  "  Comrade  Ellen,"  and  he  added, 
"she  makes  baskets." 

There  certainly  was  nothing  appalling  in  her 
occupation.  Chance  would  have  enjoyed  a  good 
laugh  as  he  looked  across  at  this  singular  pair, — 
the  man  so  insignificant  in  his  tunic,  the  woman 


Ellen  97 

so  large  and  forbidding  in  her  severely  chaste 
white  robes.  But  since  his  interest  ran  no  farther 
than  the  cottage  in  question,  he  went  on  to  dis 
pose  of  the  business. 

"I  shall  be  sorry  to  inconvenience  her,  Mr. 
Hobbema,  but  our  plans  make  it  necessary  to 
remove  the  building." 

"To  remove  it!"  both  repeated.  And  the 
overseer  added,  awkwardly,  "It  was  Mr.  Stein's 
idea  —  putting  it  up  there.  I  should  not  like  to 
do  anything  so  drastic  without  an  order  from  him." 

"You  might  wire  him,  if  you  prefer." 

Again  the  overseer  turned  to  his  wife. 

"I  am  perfectly  willing  to  take  the  responsi 
bility,"  Chance  added,  "if  you  will  look  after 
the  young  lady." 

"She  could  be  put  in  with  the  Weavers, 
Samuel,"  suggested  Mrs.  Hobbema,  "while  other 
arrangements  were  being  made  for  her.  I 
think  they  would  take  her  for  a  few  days  if  you 
explained  it." 

"Or  we  might  take  her  in  here,  my  dear." 

"No,  we  might  not!"  came  the  uncompro 
mising  reply. 

Chance's  mild  interest  in  the  situation  was 
dying  out.  "If  you're  willing,  I'll  move  the 

H 


98  Comrade  John 

house  down  this  way.  I  shall  have  to  do  some 
thing  about  it  this  week." 

"Is  it  as  urgent  as  that,  Comrade?" 

"It  is." 

"Then  perhaps  we  had  better  walk  up  there 
now,  and  explain  it  to  her."  And  with  this, 
braving  his  wife's  frown,  the  overseer  went  out 
into  the  hall  and  lighted  his  lantern. 

When  they  were  out  on  the  road,  and  had 
turned  up  the  valley,  he  went  on  to  say:  — 

"This  thing  is  a  little  awkward,  coming  up  in 
just  this  way,  Comrade.  I  am  glad  that  you 
spoke  to  me  about  it.  I  think  you  understand 
that  I  am  the  man  at  the  throttle  here.  All  the 
business  of  Beechcroft  passes  through  my  hands. 
Mr.  Stein  talks  everything  over  with  me.  He 
has  to,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  if  our  work  here  is 
to  go  on  at  all.  But  —  of  course,  if  you  feel 
sure  that  your  authority  as  the  master  builder 
permits  you  to  do  this,  I  will  step  aside  in  the 
matter.  We  must  not  have  any  conflict  of  au 
thority,  Comrade,  in  the  absence  of  our  leader." 

He  looked  up  out  of  the  sides  of  his  eyes.  He 
was  wondering  how  much  Chance  could  be  led 
to  tell  about  himself  and  his  singular  position  at 
Beechcroft.  As  overseer,  he  alone  knew  how 


Ellen 


99 


singular  that  position  was.  And  he  knew  too 
many  of  Stein's  secrets  to  remain  for  long  com 
fortably  ignorant  concerning  the  details  of  this 
one.  It  was  clear  enough  to  him  that  the  master 
builder  was  not  a  regular  devotee.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  had  so  far  discovered  no  record 
of  payments  made  to  him. 

"I  suppose  you  are  informed,"  he  ventured, 
"about  the  great  work  Mr.  Stein  is  developing 
at  New  York?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  am  not." 

"He  expects  very  soon  to  announce  a  splendid 
addition  to  the  "Triumph"  movement,  Comrade, 

—  something  which  will  give  a  new  impetus  to 
the  work.     Of  course  it  is  not  announced  yet, 

—  it   is    confidential,  you  understand,  —  but  he 
expects  to  bring  a  woman  who  is  very  young 
and  very  beautiful.     If  she  comes,  she  will  study 
here  with  the  purpose  of  carrying  Mr.   Stein's 
truth  to  the  country  —  to  the  world.     She  will  be 
our  Joan  of  Arc,  rousing  the  country  to  enthu 
siasm.     There   seems   to   be   little   danger  of  a 
slip  now.     The  new   convert,   the   famous   Mr. 
Pole,  has  been  a  great  help  to  him.     I  cannot 
say  more  than  that  he  is  anxious  that  our  new 
Beechcroft    shall   make   the   most    striking   im- 


ioo  Comrade  John 

pression  on  the  tenth  of  June,  when  he  brings 
his  party  up  from  town." 

Chance  smiled  a  little,  and  looked  off  up  the 
starlit  valley.  He  saw  it,  not  as  it  was,  but  as  it 
was  to  be  when  he  should  be  through  with  it. 
It  would  fetch  them  —  he  knew  it.  The  mark 
he  had  set  himself  was  to  make  old  Stein  himself 
gasp  —  nothing  less  —  when  his  eyes  should  first 
rest  on  the  completed  picture.  The  only  thing 
that  could  spoil  that  wonderful  first  impression 
would  be  clouds,  or  a  fog.  All  he  asked  was  sun 
shine.  He  would  provide  everything  else. 

"  The  movement  is  bound  to  be  a  triumph  indeed, 
Comrade,"  the  overseer  was  saying  at  his  elbow. 
"  We  are  destined  to  sweep  this  broad  land,  to  throw 
the  light  of  truth  into  every  dark  corner.  What 
are  the  roots  of  unhappiness,  Comrade  ?  Are  they 
not  idleness  and  luxury?  It  is  only  by  ceaseless 
toil  that  we  may  build  the  beautiful,  that  we  may 
achieve  character.  It  is  only  by  achieving  character 
that  we  may  be  happy,  that  we  may  know  the 
perfect  peace  of  mind.  It  is  all  so  simple,  so  easy 
to  grasp,  Comrade.  Think  what  it  will  mean  when, 
instead  of  a  paltry  quarter  of  a  million  believers, 
we  shall  have  a  million,  five  millions,  ten  millions  ! 
Think  what  it  will  mean  to  this  nation!" 


Ellen  101 

They  were  passing  through  the  narrowest 
part  of  the  valley,  where  there  was  room  for  little 
more  than  the  stream  and  the  road.  With  a  brief 
"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Chance  stopped  short, 
held  his  lantern  aloft,  and  scrutinized  the  steep 
walls  on  either  side,  where  the  bare,  wet  rock  of 
the  mountain  side,  cropping  out  here  and  there 
through  the  thin  covering  of  soil  and  brush,  threw 
back  the  shine  of  his  lantern.  He  caught  at  a 
sapling  and  swung  himself  down  to  the  stream, 
looking  closely  at  the  shelving  banks,  and  tak 
ing  rough  measurements  with  his  eye.  It  would 
be  easier  than  he  had  supposed;  absurdly  easy, 
considering  the  remarkable  result  to  be  obtained. 
Then,  with  a  little  nod  of  satisfaction,  he 
scrambled  back  to  the  road. 

"All  right,  Comrade  Samuel,"  he  said  cheer 
fully.  "Here's  the  house,  just  ahead  of  us." 
As  they  walked  briskly  on,  he  added,  "By  the 
way,  I  shall  have  to  change  the  road  all  round, 
where  it  passes  through  the  notch  here." 

Hobbema  knocked  and  then  entered.  The 
door  gave  directly  into  the  living-room  which, 
with  its  flat  wall  surface,  its  green-stained  beams 
overhead,  and  its  absence  of  any  but  the  simplest 
ornaments,  was  very  restful.  What  caught  the 


IO2  Comrade  John 

eye  at  once  in  a  manner  to  disturb  somewhat 
this  harmony  of  outline,  were  the  long  rows  of 
baskets,  of  all  sizes  and  colors  and  shapes,  that 
stood  along  the  walls,  and  the  heaps  of  baskets 
in  the  farther  corners.  After  the  one  sweeping 
glance  about  the  room,  Chance  found  his  eye 
drawn  to  the  young  woman  who  was  putting  by 
an  unfinished  basket,  with  streamers  of  colored 
raffia  trailing  from  it,  and  rising  to  meet  them. 
Her  robes  were  not  white,  like  those  of  most  of 
the  other  Beechcroft  women,  but  yellow  —  a 
yellow  that  was  almost  green  in  the  lamplight. 
She  was  tall,  and  so  slender  that  she  seemed  to 
sway  as  she  walked,  or  glided,  toward  them. 
She  was  not  beautiful,  —  so  much  Chance  de 
cided  at  once,  —  but  there  was  about  her  a  cu 
rious  sort  of  distinction.  Her  face  was  long  and 
almost  angular,  set  off  severely  by  the  straight, 
parted  hair.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  dark,  and 
seemed  at  one  moment  lustrous,  at  another  clouded. 
But  her  hands  were  her  most  striking  feature  — 
long  and  slender,  with  tapering,  restless  fingers. 

She  merely  inclined  her  head  toward  the  over 
seer.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Chance  in  a  way 
that  made  him  a  little  uncomfortable.  She  laid 
her  hand  in  his,  looking  steadily  into  his  eyes, 


Ellen  103 

and  said,  in  a  voice  of  some  natural  depth  and 
freshness,  but  expressionless :  — 

"You  are  Comrade  John,  the  builder.  I  am 
glad  you  have  come  here.  I  think  we  shall  be 
friends." 

They  seated  themselves  beneath  the  tall, 
green-shaded  lamp,  and  she  resumed  her  work 
on  the  basket. 

"You  have  come  to  tell  me  something,"  she 
said,  speaking  directly  to  Chance. 

"Comrade  John  has  a  —  a  matter  to  discuss 
with  you,"  began  the  overseer;  but  she  inter 
rupted  him,  positively,  but  without  emotion. 

"Then  let  him  speak  to  me,"  she  said. 

There  was  something  attractive  about  her 
in  spite  of  her  strange  ways,  something  which 
Chance  felt  to  be  utter,  uncompromising  honesty. 
He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  then  said, 
with  a  touch  of  deference  in  his  voice :  — 

"The  subject  will  not  be  pleasant  for  you, 
Comrade  Ellen."  The  words  seemed  a  natural 
enough  mode  of  address,  as  they  fell  from  his  lips. 
"It  will  be  necessary  to  move  this  house  into  the 
lower  valley." 

She  lowered  her  work  and  looked  at  him. 
"Why?"  she  asked. 


IO4  Comrade  John 

"  Because,  I  am  very  sorry  to  say,  it  is  in  the 
way  of  our  work  here." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  while  she  read  the 
face  of  the  master  builder.  Then  she  slowly 
turned  to  the  overseer. 

"You  would  not  have  brought  him  to  me  with 
this  news  a  year  ago  —  before  Herman  Stein  — 
before—" 

She  did  not  finish.  Hobbema's  narrow  face 
grew  slowly  red.  His  eyes  shifted  about,  and 
finally  fixed  themselves  on  the  half-formed  basket 
in  her  lap.  And  Chance,  as  he  looked,  first  at 
the  flushing  charlatan,  then  at  the  fearless, 
misguided,  terribly  lonely  young  woman,  who, 
whatever  she  might  be,  had  at  least  the  courage 
of  the  child  and  the  simpleton,  the  courage 
which  drags  out  that  which  cowardice  would 
conceal,  began  to  understand  this .  singular  situa 
tion;  and  he  forgot  even  his  contempt  for  the 
man  in  his  great  pity  for  the  woman.  So  this 
was  the  trail  of  Stein !  So  Beechcroft  was  not 
a  joke ! 

"Well,"  she  said,  "is  that  all?" 

Chance  bowed. 

"Then  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
said?" 


Ellen  105 

Chance  arose ;  and  then,  as  the  overseer  moved 
toward  the  door,  he  turned  and  extended  his 
hand.  He  met  her  gaze  unflinchingly,  and  with 
out  lowering  his  hand.  Finally  she  took  it. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  did  not  know 
how  much  it  might  mean.  I  did  not  even  know 
whom  I  should  be  disturbing.  I  am  —  sorry." 

"It  marks  the  end,"  she  replied,  in  the  same 
low,  expressionless  voice.  And  then,  evidently 
moved  by  a  swift  impulse,  she  added,  so  low 
that  the  overseer  could  not  hear,  "Come  back 
—  in  twenty  minutes." 

He  bowed  and  walked  away.  And  a  moment 
later  he  was  saying  good  night  to  Hobbema,  out 
in  the  road. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Comrade,"  said  the 
overseer,  with  a  glance  toward  the  house,  which 
looked  very  snug  in  its  setting  of  vines  and  shrub 
bery,  all  a- rustle  in  the  night  breeze,  "I've  been 
thinking  that  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you 
understood  — " 

"Good  night,"  Chance  broke  in.  And  he 
walked  rapidly  away,  up  the  dim  road. 

That  something  which  had  been  aroused  within 
him  had  not  wholly  quieted  down  when  he  re 
turned  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later.  She  was 


106  Comrade  John 

standing  in  the  open  doorway  looking  off  into 
the  night. 

"Come  here,"  she  said,  leading  him  in  behind 
the  vine  that  screened  the  veranda,  and  deliber 
ately  placing  him  where  the  soft  interior  light 
fell  on  him;  "I  don't  know  who  you  are  —  you 
whom  they  call  'Comrade  John.'  But  I  know 
that  you  do  not  belong  at  Beechcroft.  Men  with 
eyes  like  yours  do  not  come  here.  Women  come 
here,  and  fools.  Tell  me  —  why  are  you  here?" 

Chance  deliberated  a  moment. 

"You  have  asked  me  a  question  which  I  would 
not  answer  without  thought,"  he  said.  "I  am 
not  sure  that  I  would  answer  it  at  all.  Would 
it  be  fair,  after  saying  that,  to  ask  you  a  very 
similar  question?" 

"From  you  it  would,"  she  replied  slowly. 
"I  was  one  of  the  fools." 

"Why  do  you  stay?" 

"There  is  no  other  place  for  me." 

Suddenly  her  eyes  flashed. 

"What  have  they  told  you  about  me?"  she 
demanded.  "What  do  they  say  about  me?" 

And  as  suddenly  she  spared  him  a  reply.  "I 
don't  know  why  I  asked  you  to  come  back,"  she 
said" — unless  it  was  your  eyes.  Perhaps  — 


Ellen  107 

some  day  —  you  may  be  able  to  help  me.  You 
will,  I  think,  if  you  can.  Possibly,  even,  I  may 
be  able  to  help  you." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  looking  at  her  with  frank, 
grave  interest.  "It  may  be."  And  all  the  way 
up  the  dark  mountain  road  this  new  gravity 
hung  over  him. 

Henry  and  Bill  were  playing  pinochle  in  the 
model  room.  Chance  nodded  in  through  the 
doorway  and  passed  on  into  the  little  room  in 
which  he  slept.  There  were  a  good  many  fools 
in  the  world,  and  he  had  never  felt  much  personal 
responsibility  for  them.  Plenty  were  drawn  un 
der  in  the  show  business  —  feeble  little  moths, 
attracted  by  the  glitter  and  the  sparkle,  burning 
their  wings  and  dropping  from  sight.  But  if 
the  show  business  could  not  be  made  fool-proof, 
still  it  stood  forth  frankly  for  what  it  was,  and 
you  could  take  it  or  leave  it. 

The  Beechcroft  proposition  would  probably  be 
well  enough,  in  supplying  the  popular  demand, 
if  always  some  hardworking,  inconspicuous  mana 
ger  stood  by  to  see  that  none  of  the  fools  were 
hurt  on  the  chutes  or  ground  up  on  the  scenic 
railway.  But  to  lure  in  the  deluded  ones  and 


io8  Comrade  John 

wreck  them  —  that  was  different.  If  that  was 
the  game,  somebody,  some  day,  would  have  to 
pay  the  shot.  He  felt  no  more  responsibility 
for  Stein  than  a  lawyer  or  an  architect  feels  for 
his  client.  But  Stein  had  a  job  on  his  hands,  and 
if  he  failed  to  mind  it  he  would  undoubtedly 
have  to  pay  the  shot.  And  if,  or  when,  that 
payment  should  fall  due,  the  resulting  spectacle 
would  probably  be  worth  seeing. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  PERSON  WHO   GASPED 

DURING  the  first  few  weeks  Chance  permitted 
some  of  the  disciples  to  mingle  with  his  work 
men,  in  order  to  support  the  illusion  of  what  he 
felt  inclined  to  term  "Beauty  through  incom 
petence."  But  on  the  first  of  May  he  washed  his 
hands  of  Beechcroft  labor.  He  was  keyed  up 
to  a  big  job,  and  he  refused  to  be  hampered  by 
incompetents.  He  had  no  time  for  playing  a 
part.  At  any  moment  he  was  likely  to  crash 
through  all  restraints,  and  come  out  with  sharp, 
driving  orders.  Then,  the  incompetents  were  a 
drag  on  his  real  workmen.  It  is  a  nerve-racking 
experience  to  keep  several  hundred  men  up  to 
top  pitch  for  six  weeks;  once  you  lose  the  pace 
you  cannot  regain  it.  So  he  asked  Hobbema 
to  place  guards  where  they  could  keep  everyone 
from  Beechcroft  out  of  the  upper  valley.  And 
then  rapidly  the  oddly  shaped  canvas  enclosures 
mounted  upward.  Hammers  and  sledges  rang 
109 


no  Comrade  John 

all  day,  and,  as  soon  as  the  electrical  connection 
was  established,  all  night.  Two  hoisting  engines 
puffed  and  rumbled  unceasingly.  Long  strings 
of  wagons  crawled,  creaking,  down  the  upper 
road  and  back  again.  Tunics  and  sandals  were 
discarded  for  overalls  and  boots.  Men  swarmed 
down  into  the  narrow  valley,  felling  trees  and 
clearing  out  underbrush.  A  steam  roller  came 
up  from  New  York,  puffed,  clanked,  and  groaned 
its  way  through  the  settlement,  and  went  heavily 
to  work  on  the  elliptical  promenade  for  which 
Chance  had  imported  crushed  limestone,  at  con 
siderable  expense,  in  place  of  the  dark  native  blue- 
stone.  He  wished  that  promenade  to  be  white. 

May  ran  on  into  June.  The  days  grew  warmer, 
and  there  was  real  sweat  at  Beechcroft,  plenty 
of  it.  One  Saturday  night  some  West  Street 
whiskey  found  its  way  into  camp,  and  Chance 
and  Hemenway  and  a  sturdy  foreman  or  two 
fought  and  bullied  and  cajoled  twenty-odd 
riotous,  wood-alcohol-crazy  laborers  out  of  a 
raid  on  the  peaceful  settlement  in  the  lower 
valley,  which  was  sleeping  softly  amid  its  green 
trees  and  by  its  bubbling,  swirling  little  stream. 
By  way  of  result,  one  man  went  down  to  New 
York  in  the  baggage  car  with  a  broken  jaw,  and 


The  Person  who  Gasped  in 

neither   Chance   nor   Bill   Hemenway   was   pre 
sentable  for  a  day  or  so. 

The  eighth  of  June  dawned  clear  and  warm, 
and  Chance,  fresh  from  camp  cot  and  tin  bath 
tub,  clad  in  conventional  city  costume,  was  up 
almost  with  the  sun.  This  day  he  planned  to 
spend  in  New  York,  —  telegrams  to  that  effect 
had  gone  down  the  day  before,  —  but  before 
evening  he  would  be  back,  keen,  vigorous,  ready 
for  the  lively  forty-eight  hours  ahead  of  him. 
There  had  been  no  allowance  for  mistakes  or 
accidents.  Before  noon,  two  days  later,  Stein 
and  his  Joan  would  be  on  the  ground.  The 
convention  would  be  in  session,  with  delegations 
from  every  state  and  territory,  and  even  from 
the  foreign  countries.  An  earnest  little  band  of 
Japanese  disciples  had  already  arrived  at  Broad- 
rib's  Station.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Stein 
was  a  great  press  agent,  —  he  possessed  the  subtle 
art  of  " bringing  the  people  out."  And  now  it 
rested  with  John  Chance  (in  his  own  phrase) 
"to  deliver  the  show."  But  first  he  proposed  to 
play  the  press  agent  himself.  Stein  had  never 
yet  drawn  any  but  derisive  comment  from  the 
New  York  papers.  Now  it  was  a  part  of  Chance's 
plan  that  a  full  force  of  reporters  should  be  in 


H2  Comrade  John 

his  audience  on  that  tenth  of  June,  to  see  for 
themselves  the  triumph  of  blended  incompe 
tence  and  faith,  and  that  they  should  come  not 
in  jibing  mood.  Accordingly,  after  a  light  break 
fast,  a  pipe,  and  a  last  word  with  his  foremen, 
he  sprang  into  his  buggy,  drove  up  through  the 
notch  and  down  the  winding  road  to  the  siding, 
and  caught  the  seven-twenty-two  train  for  New 
York. 

,  When  he  walked  through  the  ramshackle,  ill- 
smelling  ferry  house  at  Forty-second  Street  and 
caught  the  blend  of  familiar  odors  and  the  warm, 
humid  air  which  are  New  York  in  summer,  he 
became  sharply  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he 
must  not  be  recognized.  It  would  be  difficult 
to  answer  certain  questions  that  would  be  asked. 
He  had  almost  forgotten  that  part  of  his  contract. 
After  all,  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  in 
as  a  party  to  a  fraud  of  some  magnitude,  and  it 
was  with  a  half-conscious  little  shrug  that  he 
realized  that  he  was  committed  to  seeing  it 
through.  A  casual  paragraph  in  one  of  the  even 
ing  papers,  to  the  effect  that  John  Chance,  the 
showman  and  architect,  was  the  real  brain  be 
hind  the  spontaneous  flowering  of  Herman 
Stein's  prophetic  spirit,  might  easily  wreck  the 


The  Person  who  Gasped  113 

prophet's  career  and  bring  his  elaborate  structure 
tumbling  down  around  him. 

The  first  object  that  caught  his  eye  was  his 
own  big  limousine  Panhard  waiting  just  outside 
the  wagon  shed,  the  chauffeur  scanning  closely 
the  crowd  of  country  folk  which  was  streaming 
through  the  gates.  With  an  impatient  gesture, 
Chance  stepped  out  of  the  crowd  and  in  among 
the  wagons  on  the  roadway.  He  was  beside 
the  car  before  the  chauffeur  saw  him. 

" Don't  look  at  me,  Claude,"  he  said,  "don't 
speak  to  me.  Get  out  of  here,  and  stay  away. 
I'm  in  Paris  —  understand  !" 

A  few  steps  more,  and  he  had  disappeared 
within  a  four-wheeler  cab,  and  was  rattling  east 
ward  over  the  broken,  bumpy  pavement  of  Forty- 
second  Street.  As  he  passed  the  stage  door  of 
Hammerstein's  Victoria  Theatre  he  leaned  far 
back  in  the  cab.  This  was  the  showman's 
quarter  of  New  York,  and  there  was  a  greater 
possibility  than  he  liked  to  think  about  of  his 
being  recognized.  The  driver  turned  down 
Broadway,  and  pulled  up  before  a  building  which, 
judging  from  the  gilt  legends  on  every  window, 
was  given  over  to  the  managers  of  show  and 
theatrical  enterprises.  Chance  entered  the  build- 


H4  Comrade  John 

ing,  mounted  one  flight  of  stairs,  and  opened  a  rear 
door  which  bore  the  words,  "  Office  of  John  Chance 
—  Skelton  H.  Dunning,  Press  Representative." 

"  Good  morning,  Skip,"  he  said,  with  a  nod. 

"  Hello,  Mr.  Chance."  The  tall,  humorously 
cynical,  very  dressy  young  man,  who  had  been 
tipped  back  in  a  swivel  chair,  feet  on  desk,  ex 
changing  banter  with  a  pretty  stenographer, 
brought  down  his  feet  with  a  bang,  and  pushed 
his  Panama  hat  still  farther  back  on  his  head  as 
a  preliminary  to  shaking  hands.  "I  got  your 
message  all  right.  Did  Claude  meet  you?" 

"He  came  altogether  too  near  it,"  Chance 
replied  dryly.  "Don't  do  that  again,  Skip."  He 
observed  his  telegram  of  a  day  before  lying  open 
on  a  conspicuous  corner  of  the  desk,  and  reaching 
over,  he  carefully  tore  it  up,  and  threw  it  into  the 
waste-basket.  Then  he  passed  on  into  the  inner 
office,  followed  by  the  press  representative. 

"Sit  down,  Skip.  Now,  suppose  we  take  a 
good  look  at  each  other.  Do  you  see  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do.     You  haven't  put  me  wise." 

"No,  you  don't  see  me.     I'm  in  Paris." 

"All  right.  I'm  next.  Just  a  few  lines  — 
say  a  stickful  —  in  the  gossip  column  —  Evening 
Globe,  Telegram—" 


The  Person  who  Gasped  115 

"No,  Skip.     Not  a  stickful  anywhere." 

"I  see.  Nothing  doing.  Haven't  heard  from 
you  lately  —  motoring  in  the  Riviera,  maybe." 

"You'd  better  try  saying  nothing  at  all.  Now 
take  a  look  at  this."  And  handing  over  a  big 
envelope  full  of  typewritten  manuscript,  Chance 
turned  to  the  accumulation  of  papers  on  his 
desk. 

Dunning  read  rapidly,  letting  his  trained  eye 
run  from  paragraph  to  paragraph.  Finally  he 
looked  up  with  a  low  whistle.  "It's  beautiful, 
Mr.  Chance  —  beautiful." 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  do, 
Skip.  First  go  over  the  thing,  and  make  it  read 
right.  See  that  the  miracle  part  of  it,  the  idea 
of  those  imbeciles," — he  smiled,  —  "Bill  calls 
them  the  near-toilers,  working  out  Stein's  visions 
in  the  real  wood  and  stone,  and  actually  making 
it  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  world,  —  see 
that  it  is  played  up  for  all  it  will  stand.  Work 
out  more  fully  the  admission  that  they  haven't 
pretended  to  do  the  rougher  part  of  the  labor 
themselves.  And  put  in  some  humor  scattered 
along  through  it.  Guy  the  whole  show  a  little 
to  make  it  interesting." 

"Sure  —  sure." 


n6  Comrade  John 

"Get  the  stuff  ready  to-night." 

"And  let  one  of  the  newspaper  boys  have  it?" 

"That  is  where  you  do  a  little  work,  Skip. 
Nobody  is  to  know  that  it  comes  from  us.  We've 
got  to  get  the  newspaper  boys  up  there  on  the 
tenth,  but  we  can't  ask  them  to  come.  If  we 
did,  —  or  worse,  if  Stein  did  it  personally,  — 
every  paper  would  send  up  its  humorist.  I  want 
this  thing  handled  as  news.  It  will  show  them 
that  something  is  really  doing  at  Beechcroft  — 
something  they  can't  afford  to  miss.  They  won't 
see  me,  —  I'll  be  well  out  of  the  way,  —  but 
they'll  see  Stein  and  Stein's  miracle;  and  mira 
cles  are  fairly  scarce  these  days.  Get  it  into  to 
morrow's  World,  if  you  can,  or  the  Herald. 
There  are  pictures  of  Stein  and  Hobbema  in 
that  envelope,  and  a  group  of  the  women  in 
costume,  and  another  group  of  the  Beechcroft 
guards." 

Dunning  looked  down  at  the  photographs, 
then  up  at  his  employer,  and  his  face  expanded 
in  a  sly,  slow  grin.  "Pretty  good  graft  this  man 
Stein  is  working  up,"  he  observed. 

"Pretty  good,"  Chance  replied. 

"The  only  outfit  he  seems  to  need  is  a  straight 
face  and  a  place  to  put  the  money." 


The  Person  who  Gasped  117 

"That's  about  all." 

The  press  representative  mused.  "I  know 
him,"  he  said.  "He  used  to  lecture  on  soul 
culture  to  suburban  ladies."  His  eyes  strayed 
back  to  the  photographs,  and  again  came  that 
slow  grin.  "But  this  proposition  has  the  lecture 
graft  skinned  alive." 

"You'd  better  get  at  it,  Skip,"  said  Chance, 
who  was  back  in  his  correspondence.  "And 
remember,  the  thing  must  be  air-tight  —  no 
leaks  in  it  —  not  a  suspicion  that  the  story  comes 
from  the  inside." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Chance.  I  know  a  little  girl 
who  won't  be  sorry  to  sell  the  World  a  choice 
special  story  on  her  own  account.  We'll  make 
little  old  New  York  sit  up  and  take  a  long  look 
around."  He  rose,  gathering  up  the  manu 
script  and  the  pictures.  "The  Beechcroft  miracle 
will  leave  the  Elijah  invasion  mired  at  the  quarter 
pole.  Peace  be  with  thee!"  And  with  this 
mildly  ribald  comment,  the  press  representative 
withdrew  to  the  outer  office  and  set  to  work. 

Chance  left  New  York  as  cautiously  as  he 
had  entered  it,  and  at  four  o'clock  was  back  at 
his  desk  in  the  model  room,  putting  the  details 
of  his  correspondence  in  such  shape  that  his 


n8  Comrade  John 

stenographer  would  be  able  to  handle  it  for  a 
few  days.  At  five  he  slipped  into  his  Beechcroft 
dress  and  went  down  to  "the  job." 

Bill  Hemenway  was  ready  in  the  gorge  with 
a  dozen  carpenters  and  fifty  to  sixty  laborers. 
Another  gang  of  laborers  was  waiting  by  the 
heaps  of  broken  stone  on  the  hillside.  Chance 
clambered  up  beside  them  and  ran  an  observant 
eye  over  the  coils  of  cable,  the  running  tackle, 
and  the  lines  of  buckets  ready  filled  with  stone. 
He  scrambled  down  and  glanced  at  the  timber 
piles,  then  walked  over  to  the  waiting  super 
intendent. 

"All  right,  Bill,"  he  said.  "Go  ahead." 
At  this  the  superintendent  waved  his  hands,  and 
a  dozen  men,  with  double  timber  hooks,  picked  up 
one  of  the  big  timbers  and  staggered  with  it 
down  the  slope,  across  the  clear,  shallow  stream, 
and  over  to  the  blue-stone  abutment  on  the 
farther  side.  Another  stick  followed,  and  an 
other,  until  the  rocky  ground,  ready  levelled 
for  the  purpose,  was  floored  for  twenty  feet  on 
either  side  of  the  water.  The  men  on  the  hill 
side  were  at  work  uncoiling  wire  cables  and  run 
ning  them  down  through  the  underbrush,  across 
the  gorge,  and  up  the  farther  bank.  As  soon  as 


The  Person  who  Gasped  119 

the  dusk  had  fairly  begun  to  settle  down,  Chance 
gave  another  order,  and  the  cables  were  hauled 
up  taut  in  the  air,  from  hillside  to  hillside.  A 
few  moments  more,  and  a  timber  hoist  slowly 
lifted  its  head  above  the  trees  and  settled  into 
place.  It  was  all  accomplished  as  nearly  silently 
as  possible.  Chance  and  Hemenway  gave  their 
orders  in  low  tones,  and  McCune,  the  Irish  fore 
man,  on  the  hillside,  restrained  his  tongue  val 
iantly,  swearing  in  so  soft  a  voice  that  it  came 
down  to  the  ears  of  the  men  below  only  as  a  low, 
almost  continuous  murmur. 

It  was  a  bright  evening,  and  with  the  help  of 
a  few  well-placed  gasoline  flares,  —  a  relic,  like 
the  canvas  about  the  buildings,  of  the  late  la 
mented  Coyote  Bill,  —  the  men  were  able  to 
place  the  upright  timbers.  Then,  at  the  wave 
of  a  lantern,  the  first  bucket  of  stone  came  career 
ing  down  the  cable,  paused  in  mid-air,  and  let 
fall  its  burden  on  the  timber  flooring.  Chance 
was  satisfied  now  that  the  work  would  go  on 
properly  under  the  eye  and  hand  of  Bill  Hemen 
way,  and  he  walked  up  the  promenade  to  the 
temple. 

,  It  was  certainly  not  a  typical  Beechcroft  scene, 
—  this  narrow  gorge  littered  with  building 


i2O  Comrade  John 

materials,  swarming  with  the  gnome-like  figures 
of  half-clad,  grunting  men,  the  whole  lighted  with 
flares  that  wavered  and  flickered  and  kept  the 
shadows  dancing  —  but  it  would  soon  be  over 
with.  Within  less  than  two  days  the  gloomy 
ravine  would  smile. 

About  the  temple  and  its  adjoining  buildings 
there  was  still  the  scaffolding  and  the  dingy, 
loosely  hung  canvas.  The  painters  were  at  work 
here  and  there,  but  already  the  work  of  taking 
down  the  scaffolding  had  begun.  He  entered 
the  temple,  from  which  all  the  interior  scaffolding 
had  been  removed.  It  was  cool  and  lofty  in 
here,  and 'he  took  off  his  hat,  smiling  a  little  as 
he  did  so,  and  seated  himself  for  a  breath  and  a 
look  around.  It  was  impressive,  even  to  this 
man  who  had  designed  and  built  it,  and  who 
knew,  what  others  would  not  know,  that  the 
walls  were  merely  old  boards,  covered  on  the 
outside  with  sheet- iron  and  on  the  inside  with 
lath  and  plaster.  He  looked  up,  in  the  faint, 
mysterious  half  light  thrown  in  by  the  arc  lamps 
outside  the  windows,  at  the  speaker's  platform 
with  its  quaint  old  mission  pulpit,  and  nodded 
with  satisfaction.  What  a  setting  it  would  make 
for  the  massive  figure  of  Herman  Stein ! 


The  Person  who  Gasped  121 

After  a  moment  he  rose,  mounted  the  platform, 
and  passed  on  through  the  curtained  doorway 
at  the  rear  of  the  stage  into  the  robing-room. 
Back  of  the  robing-room  was  another,  larger 
room,  which  he  entered  by  unlocking  a  heavy 
oaken  door  with  a  flat  key.  He  groped  along 
the  wall  near  the  door,  and  by  clicking  a  switch 
turned  on  a  drop-light  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room.  There  were  big  leather  chairs  here,  and 
a  long  centre-table,  and  a  roll-top  mahogany 
desk,  and  a  steel  safe  bearing  the  initials,  "H.  S." 
There  were  no  windows.  This  room,  this  inner 
retreat,  was  the  only  thing  Stein  had  expressly 
demanded.  The  walls,  floor,  and  ceiling  were 
of  steel,  faced  with  oak  and  plaster.  Chance 
took  it  that  Stein  wished  a  burglar-proof  room, 
secure  against  even  the  prying  eyes  of  Hobbema, 
for  his  personal  documents,  and  perhaps  for  his 
personal  profits,  and  the  desire  seemed  rational 
enough.  "You  never  can  tell,"  Chance  re 
flected,  as  he  looked  about  him,  "how  soon  un 
expected  events  will  turn  a  peaceful  community 
into  a  riotous  mob."  There  was  but  the  one  door, 
and  this,  like  the  walls,  was  of  steel  sheathed  with 
oak.  The  telephone  was  here,  for  during  the 
construction  period  Chance  was  using  the  room 


122  Comrade  John 

as  an  office.  In  addition  to  the  camp  connection, 
he  had  run  a  wire  to  Hobbema's  house. 

The  temple,  at  least  in  the  interior,  was  as  im 
pressive  as  Chance  could  wish.  If  the  exterior 
proved,  in  its  green  setting,  as  nearly  like  the  dream 
that  had  for  months  filled  his  mind,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  about  the  success  of  the  new  Beech- 
croft. 

Even  the  old  Beechcroft  was  apparently  in 
teresting  to  the  convention  visitors,  who,  during  all 
of  June  ninth,  came  pouring  in  by  every  train,  fill 
ing  the  hotels  at  Broadrib's  Station,  the  board 
ing-houses  along  the  road,  and  the  dormitory 
tents  which  Hobbema  was  putting  up  in  the 
clearings  between  Beechcroft  and  the  Kinder- 
kill.  They  swarmed  up  the  valley,  women  with 
earnest  eyes  and  children  wht>  asked  questions. 
They  peered  into  the  shops,  and  grouped  them 
selves  before  the  house  of  the  prophet.  They 
picked  leaves  and  wild  flowers  to  press  between 
the  pages  of  "Toil  and  Triumph."  Before  noon 
of  June  tenth,  the  opening  day,  the  pink- and- white 
mountain  laurel,  which  had  peeped  out  every 
where  a  few  days  earlier,  through  the  hillside 
trees,  had  all  but  disappeared.  The  guards  at 
the  gorge,  doubled  in  number,  were  already 


The  Person  who  Gasped  123 

yielding  momentarily  to  outbursts  of  impatience 
with  the  wandering,  pressing  crowds  that  tried 
endlessly  to  circumvent  them  and  have  a  look 
at  that  mysterious  upper  valley. 

At  noon  of  the  great  day  Chance  stood  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  promenade,  just  above  the  dam, 
and  surveyed  his  work,  and  his  pulses  quickened 
a  little  as  his  eyes  took  it  in.  The  picture  was 
perfect  —  he  knew  that,  as  the  artist  always 
knows  when  his  eye  and  hand  have  played  him 
true.  Stein  would  gasp.  Chance  was  sure  of 
it.  He  had  set  his  stage  with  the  greatest  care. 
Below  the  dam  the  promenade  descended  on 
both  sides  of  the  stream  in  broad  flights  of  stone 
steps  to  the  ends  of  the  valley  road,  which  he 
had  here  depressed  to  a  lower  level. 

Bill  Hemenway,  clad  like  Chance,  in  his  tunic, 
came  up  the  steps  behind  him. 

"Well,  Mr.  Chance,  how  does  she  strike  you, 
now  she's  done?" 

"First-rate,  Bill." 

Bill  stopped  beside  him  and  indulged  in  a  long, 
sweeping  look  around.  "It's  the  first  time  I've 
really  stopped  to  take  it  in  myself,  Mr.  Chance. 
There's  no  doubt  you've  got  'em.  It's  the  goods.'' 
He  yawned,  and  stretched  his  bare,  wiry  arms. 


124  Comrade  John 

"If  I  loaf  around  here  much  longer,  I'll  be  get 
ting  the  Steineetis  too,  like  them  victims  of  the 
hook  worm,  down  yonder.  I  guess  they  can 
manage  to  pull  off  their  circus  parade  without 
my  assistance.  I'm  going  to  tumble  in  and  sleep 
till  half- past  ten  to-morrow  morning.  Are  you 
coming  up  to  the  shack?" 

"Not  just  yet,  Bill.     Don't  wait  for  me." 

"Going  to  take  in  the  show,  eh?  It's  certainly 
a  big  day  for  Beechcroft.  There's  thousands 
of  'em  waiting  around  down  there.  And  I  heard 
the  new  boy  choir  practising  when  I  come  by 
the  old  chapel.  They  were  singing  'Soldiers  of 
Toil,  Arise,  Arise,'  and  the  one  about  Character 
and  Beauty.  Well,  it's  Morphee-us  and  the 
downy  cot  for  mine." 

And  with  this,  Bill  went  up  on  the  promenade, 
leaving  his  employer  still  gazing  at  the  white 
temple  against  the  green  mountain  side. 

A  little  later  Chance  looked  around  toward  the 
lower  valley,  and  for  the  first  time  became  con 
scious  of  the  stir  and  activity  there.  He  heard 
the  confused  murmur  of  many  voices,  the  shouts 
and  cries  of  children  playing,  the  whinnying  and 
stamping  of  horses.  During  these  busy  days 
and  nights  the  world  had  doubtless  been  moving 


The  Person  who  Gasped  125 

along  as  usual.  It  was  evident  that  the  little 
Beechcroft  world  had  been  moving  pretty  rapidly. 
He  had  known  that  the  temple  was  to  be  dedicated 
to  the  cause,  and  that  there  would  be  some  dis 
play  and  ceremony,  but  the  work  at  his  hand  had 
lately  been  so  engrossing  as  to  drive  everything 
else  out  of  his  mind.  Now,  as  he  looked  down 
through  the  foliage,  and  caught  glimpses  of  the 
throngs  of  eager  men  and  women  there,  and 
of  banded  Beechcroft  guards,  with  their  long 
staves,  moving  about  and  pressing  them  back, 
he  realized  what  was  going  on.  For  Herman 
Stein  was  no  fool;  and  this  was  the  moment  in 
which  Herman  Stein  must  play  up  the  Beechcroft 
miracle  for  all  it  was  worth.  Stein  had  been 
working,  that  was  plain.  And  Hobbema  had 
been  working.  And  neither  had  taken  John 
Chance  into  his  confidence.  Chance  had  con 
structed  and  delivered  the  miracle,  as  per  agree 
ment.  And  this  done,  also  as  per  agreement, 
Chance  dropped  out  of  the  picture.  The  toil 
had  been  for  Chance;  the  triumph  was  now 
for  Stein. 

Stein  and  that  mysterious  party  of  his  must 
have  arrived  at  Beechcroft  some  little  time  earlier ; 
Chance  recalled  that  he  had  heard  the  whistle 


126  Comrade  John 

of  the  Beechcroft  Special  long  before  noon,  and 
it  was  now  a  little  after.  But  Stein  would  play 
it  deliberately  —  trust  him  for  that !  And  he 
would  dress  the  part  —  how  he  would  dress  it ! 
Well,  this  place  here,  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  and 
off  to  one  side,  would  be  as  good  as  any  from 
which  to  see  the  show.  It  commanded  the  steps, 
as  well  as  the  upper  valley,  and  a  little  of  the 
roadway  at  the  bottom.  The  rest  of  the  road 
way  and  most  of  the  lower  valley  was  hidden 
behind  the  closely  interlacing  foliage.  Yes,  here 
he  would  stand,  an  inconspicuous  figure,  and 
watch  another  take  the  credit  for  what  he  had 
done.  It  would  be  a  new,  a  not  uninteresting 
sensation  for  John  Chance. 

Above  the  confusion  of  sound,  and  nearer 
at  hand,  he  heard  the  tramp  of  marching  feet, 
and  then  a  high-pitched  order.  Hobbema  came 
into  view,  bearing  his  staff  of  office,  with  the 
blue-and-gold  knob  at  the  top  of  it.  There  was 
always  something  a  bit  ridiculous  about  Hobbema 
in  full  regalia.  After  him,  marching  two  and  two, 
blue-knobbed  staves  on  shoulders,  came  twenty 
of  the  Beechcroft  guards.  Hobbema  gave  another 
order.  The  guards  fell  into  line  across  the  road, 
just  below  the  steps,  and  the  crowd  swarmed 


The  Person  who  Gasped  127 

over  the  road  and  pressed  up  close.  Chance 
heard  another  sharp  voice,  a  little  farther  off, 
and  through  the  leaves  he  could  just  make  out 
that  a  smaller  squad  of  guards  had  taken  a 
similar  position  at  the  steps  on  the  other  side  of 
the  stream.  Hobbema  must  have  drilled  a 
special  force  for  the  occasion.  Four  trumpeters, 
in  white  tunics  with  red  girdles,  red  caps,  and 
red  cross-garters,  mounted  the  steps  and  took 
position  directly  across  the  promenade. 

Chance  allowed  himself  a  momentary  smile. 
The  stage  management  was  excellent.  He  looked 
down  the  steps  and  bowed  slightly  in  mock  con 
gratulation  toward  the  back  of  Hobbema's  head. 
But  Hobbema  could  never  have  got  it  up  alone. 
Behind  Hobbema  was  Stein,  —  Stein  the  prophet, 
Stein  the  showman,  —  and  for  him,  by  way  of  his 
overseer,  that  mocking  little  bow  was  intended. 

There  was  a  hush.  The  crowd  at  the  foot  of 
the  steps  was  falling  away  to  the  sides  of  the  road, 
and  leaning  out  to  peer  down  the  valley.  The 
guards  broke  ranks  and  came  running  up  the 
steps,  forming  in  two  lines  from  top  to  bottom, 
with  the  width  of  the  stairway  between  them. 
The  four  trumpeters,  who  had  been  lounging 
on  the  hillside,  straightened  up  and  began  looking 


128  Comrade  John 

to  their  instruments  and  watching  Hobbema  for 
their  signal. 

The  hush  deepened.  The  only  noise,  for  a 
moment,  was  the  gentle  music  of  the  brook. 
Then  softly  through  the  foliage,  some  little  way 
off,  came  a  burst  of  melody  from  the  throats  of 
two  score  boy  and  men  singers.  And  never  did 
boy  voices  sound  clearer  and  purer  than  on  this 
still  afternoon.  Chance  felt  it.  He  forgot  to 
think  of  the  stage  management.  Something  of 
the  almost  religious  awe  which  had  settled  over 
the  throng  of  people  along  the  road  and  on  the 
hillsides  touched  even  the  sceptical  young  show 
man  who  had  made  this  day  possible,  this  day 
of  Stein's  triumph.  The  processional  swelled 
louder.  If  he  could  have  caught  the  words, 
their  pathetically  unconscious  humor  would  have 
upset  his  gravity.  But  he  had  never  opened 
Stein's  hymnal;  and  now  he  could  hear  only  the 
music  of  the  fresh  young  voices. 

Two  women  and  a  man  were  slowly  coming 
up  the  stairway.  Chance  saw  Hobbema  bow 
very  respectfully,  and  then  his  eye  rested  on  the 
little  party.  His  wits  had  gone  wool-gathering, 
and  the  newcomers  were  halfway  up  the  steps 
before  his  eyes  really  took  them  in. 


The  Person  who  Gasped  129 

The  man  he  recognized,  after  a  slight  sense 
of  surprise  and  a  momentary  searching  of  his 
memory,  for  Moberly  Pole,  the  painter.  The 
surprise  was  occasioned  by  Pole's  costume, 
for  the  man  was  a  Beechcrofter  from  the  sole  of 
his  sandaled  foot  to  the  crown  of  his  bare  head. 
The  older  of  the  two  women  also  wore  the  Beech- 
croft  dress.  It  was  not  very  becoming  to  her; 
and  there  was  something  dispirited,  something 
more  of  toil  than  of  triumph,  in  the  way  she  was 
ascending  the  steps.  The  younger  woman  alone 
still  wore  the  dress  of  the  outer  world.  Either 
she  had  not  surrendered  to  Stein  and  Beechcroft, 
or  she  had  too  keen  a  sense  of  her  beauty  to 
swathe  herself  in  shapeless  draperies  like  those 
of  her  companion.  She  was  beautiful;  Chance 
knew  that,  even  though  her  hat  hid  her  face, 
from  the  movements  of  her  lithe  young  body  and 
from  the  poise  of  her  shapely  head  and  the  stray 
ing  locks  of  her  hair.  But  it  was  not  her  beauty 
that  now  puzzled  him,  that  suddenly  roused  his 
jaded  faculties  and  straightened  up  his  lounging 
figure,  —  he  was  standing  very  straight,  one  hand 
gripping  the  stone  post  at  the  end  of  the  dam, 
—  it  was  something  else.  He  knew  her,  he  was 
sure --almost  sure.  A  slight,  hardly  distin- 


130  Comrade  John 

guishable  flush  spread  across  his  forehead.  Then 
she  looked  up.  She  glanced  at  him  as  if  he  had 
been  a  guard  or  a  trumpeter  or  a  tree.  Then, 
a  puzzled  question  in  her  eyes,  she  looked  again. 
He  knew  her  now;  and  with  an  expression  that 
lay  midway  between  bewilderment  and  dismay, 
he  turned  his  gaze  from  her  to  the  picture  at  the 
head  of  the  valley  and  back  again.  And  the 
voices  of  the  boy  singers,  now  only  a  little  way 
down  the  road,  soared  in  clear,  careless  triumph ; 
it  seemed  as  if  they  might  be  singing  to  her. 

There  she  stood  on  the  top  step,  motionless, 
gazing  at  the  picture  before  her.  Her  face,  too, 
was  flushed.  Her  eyes  grew  moist.  She  caught 
her  breath  and  then  almost  smiled.  She  was 
radiant;  she  was  the  cathedral  candle  he  had 
seen  on  the  day  of  carnival.  And  he,  when  he 
had  looked  at  her,  standing  unconscious  there, 
until  his  dismay  had  conquered  his  bewilderment, 
turned  his  eyes  again  to  the  picture  which  he 
had  created,  and  which  she  was  now  the  first  to 
see. 

The  semicircle  of  red-roofed,  white- walled 
buildings,  at  the  head  of  the  little  valley,  leading 
up  from  'either  side  to  the  temple,  still  caught 
the  morning  sun  on  their  flat  surfaces  and  thre\r 


The  Person  who  Gasped  131 

it  back  with  a  brilliancy  that  was  dazzling  to  the 
eyes.  The  temple  itself,  placed  high  up  on  the 
slope  at  the  top  of  a  great  flight  of  white  steps, 
reared  its  towers  far  above  the  idealized  work 
shops  at  its  base  with  a  triumphant,  exulting 
lightness  and  strength  in  every  outline.  Towers, 
we  have  called  them,  but  that  is  not  the  word. 
They  were  nearer  minarets,  but  without  the  fan 
tastic  elaboration.  In  Chance's  thoughts  they 
had  always  been  a  cluster  of  great  cathedral 
candles.  That  was  what  he  had  worked  out,  — 
he  had  caught  himself  working  it  out;  and  it 
had  seemed  humorous  at  first,  —  the  feeling  that 
the  Mardi  Gras  girl,  the  girl  who  was  searching 
with  questioning  eyes  for  that  looking-glass  coun 
try  which  she  would  never  find  in  this  world, 
the  feeling  that  she  had  aroused  in  him  when  he 
first  saw  her  with  Tommy  Hollister  on  the  boule 
vard.  And  so  they  were  not  exactly  towers,  they 
were  not  exactly  minarets,  they  were  not  exactly 
spires;  they  were  the  expression,  in  terms  of 
architecture,  of  a  sensation  he  had  once  expe 
rienced.  Out  of  the  centre  of  the  cluster  rose 
one  larger  than  the  others,  which  was  capped  with 
burnished  bronze.  That  bronze,  shining  in  the 
sunlight,  was  her  hair. 


132  Comrade  John 

Back  of  the  buildings,  of  the  temple,  of  the 
cathedral  candles,  was  the  velvety  green  slope 
of  Mt.  William;  above  them  was  the  clear 
blue-and- white  sky.  But  the  lake  was  the  master 
stroke,  the  mirror  with  which  he  had  floored  the 
valley.  The  swans  were  swimming  there.  A 
solitary  blue  heron  stood  on  one  leg,  shank-deep 
in  the  shallows,  and  gazed  mournfully  about  him. 
The  gondola,  the  single  black  note  in  the  picture, 
gathering  to  itself  all  the  shadows,  was  drifting 
lazily  about  near  the  upper  end,  the  white-clad 
gondolier  leaning  on  his  oar.  The  stream  had  been 
diverted  into  a  conduit  through  the  basement  of 
the  temple,  and  it  came  shimmering  down  the 
central  flight  of  steps,  within  two  low  stone  bar 
riers,  and  leaped  off  a  sheer  thirty  feet,  half  losing 
itself  in  mist  before  it  reached  the  water  below. 
And  every  detail  of  the  picture  —  sky,  mountain, 
temple,  gondola,  swans  —  was  reflected  in  the 
mirror.  The  gentle  ripples  from  the  waterfall, 
and  the  occasional  slow  movements  of  the  gon 
dolier's  oar  did  not  break  the  reflection;  but 
they  stirred  the  clear  outlines,  and  set  the  broad 
patches  of  red  and  green  and  blue  and  white 
to  over- lapping  and  mixing  in  little  waves  of 
gay  color. 


The  Person  who  Gasped  133 

There  was  a  stir  behind  him  at  the  foot  of 
the  steps.  He  half  turned;  and  then  he  saw 
that  the  little  party  had  moved  over  to  his  side 
of  the  promenade.  Pole  and  the  older  woman 
were  peering  down  through  the  foliage;  but 
the  girl  was  looking  at  him,  bewildered,  almost 
timid,  a  look  of  recognition  hovering  about  her 
eyes,  ready,  at  a  sign,  to  break  into  a  smile. 
He  smiled,  not  quite  the  easy,  honest  smile 
which  had  stayed  in  her  memory,  but  something 
very  near  it;  and  then  she  was  certain.  She 
came  straight  to  him,  knowing  no  more  than  he 
what  to  say,  but  so  glad  to  see  him  that  she 
grew  suddenly  self-conscious,  and  extended  her 
hand. 

"You  didn't  tell  me — "  her  voice  was  low, 
and  not  quite  firm. 

"How  could  I?     I  did  not  know—" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  eyes  filled  again, 
and  a  little  wave  of  color  came  into  her  face. 
"I  can't  talk  now,"  she  said.  "It  is  so  beautiful 

—  so  wonderful  —  and  Mr.  Stein  will  be  here  in 
a  moment.     But  now  I  know  —  you   are  here 

—  and — "     Then  she  made  an  effort  to  draw 
herself    together,    and    looked    up    again.     Her 
voice  trembled,  but  her  eyes  were  smiling.     "You 


134  Comrade  John 

have  settled  it  for  me  again,  Monsieur  —  Jean. 
I  will  stay  here.  I  have  found  my  job." 

The  trumpets  blared  out.  The  choir  ascended 
the  steps  and  passed  out,  two  and  two,  along  the 
promenade,  their  pale  yellow  stoles  over  the 
white  surplices  adding  a  new  note  to  the  color 
harmony.  The  guards  followed,  and  took  up 
a  position  in  advance  of  the  choir.  Then  a 
solitary,  massive  figure  appeared  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps  and  slowly  mounted.  The  squarely 
outlined  head  was  bare.  Over  the  white  tunic, 
gathered  at  the  left  shoulder  and  falling  in  broad 
folds  over  the  massive  frame,  he  wore  a  white 
toga,  bordered  at  the  hem  with  a  wide  band  of 
royal  purple.  And  set  in  the  purple  hem,  at 
short  intervals,  were  golden  stars.  The  leader, 
the  master,  spoke  in  every  line  of  that  solid  figure. 
Stein  was  playing  it  up. 

At  the  top  step  the  prophet  stopped  short. 
The  poise,  the  wonderful  self-control  on  which 
he  prided  himself,  fell  suddenly  away  from  him. 
He  drew  in  a  long  breath  —  and  looked.  And 
then,  like  the  orator  who  turns  a  mishap  into  a 
deliberate  effect,  he  raised  his  hand,  and  the 
trumpeters  stopped,  and  the  people  were  silent. 
A  moment  passed;  then  Stein,  himself  again, 


The  Person  who  Gasped  135 

walked  deliberately  forward.  And  now  in  his 
face,  in  his  carriage,  even  in  his  back  as  he  moved 
away,  there  was  evident  a  supreme,  a  perfect 
satisfaction.  This  was  his  great  moment.  His 
visions  had  flowered.  He  was  the  master  builder, 
the  creator  of  all  that  lay  before  his  eyes  — of  the 
solid,  the  serene,  the  beautiful,  the  aspiring,  the 
triumphant  Beechcroft-to-be. 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Cynthia  —  I  think  we 
had  better  go."  It  was  Moberly  Pole,  speaking 
in  his  high,  melodious  voice.  "Mr.  Stein  has 
arranged  for  you  to  sit  near  the  platform." 

Chance  started  a  little,  and  tightened  his  hold 
on  the  hand  that  was  still  resting  in  his,  —  not 
until  this  moment  had  he  been  conscious  that  it 
was  still  there,  —  and  looked  at  Cynthia  with  an 
involuntary  drawing  together  of  his  brows. 
For  she,  still  with  that  rapt,  radiant  expression 
about  her  eyes,  was  gazing  after  the  prophet. 

"I  think  we  had  better  go,  Miss  Cynthia," 
Pole  repeated. 

Chance  leaned  forward,  drawing  her,  at  the 
same  time,  a  little  nearer  to  him.  He  could  not 
bear  to  see  those  questioning,  luminous,  innocent 
eyes  fixed  on  Herman  Stein.  He  was  on  the  point 
of  telling  her,  brutally,  that  she  had  made  a 


136  Comrade  John 

mistake,  that  this,  again,  was  far,  far  removed 
from  the  looking-glass  country  of  her  dreams. 
He  did  not  care  if  Pole  heard  him  —  he  did  not 
care  who  heard  him  —  he  did  not  care  if  Beech- 
croft  went  to  smash.  But  he  did  not  tell  her. 
Instead,  he  said,  in  a  quick,  low  voice,  "We  will 
see  each  other  again.  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 
She  inclined  her  head  dreamily;  and  he  re 
leased  her  hand  and  looked  after  her  as  she  walked 
slowly  toward  the  temple,  beside  the  procession. 
The  choir,  at  the  head,  was  singing  again,  and 
the  trumpeters  were  playing  the  melody.  The 
toilers,  each  guild  wearing  its  color,  and  bearing 
its  implements,  were  filing  by,  bright-eyed,  light- 
hearted,  buoyed  up  by  the  exhilarating  brilliancy 
of  the  day,  by  the  magic  of  the  picture,  by  the 
splendor  of  the  prophet  and  his  works.  The 
printers,  in  russet  brown,  carried  composing 
sticks  in  their  right  hands.  The  weavers,  in  dull 
green,  carried  bobbins.  The  furniture-makers 
wore  Indian-red,  and  carried  hammers.  And 
after  these  duller  notes,  the  silver-workers,  in 
white,  with  silver  embroidery,  and  a  little  band 
of  artists  in  crimson,  added  gayety  and  charm 
to  a  color-scheme  that  might  otherwise  have 
appeared  sombre. 


The  Person  who  Gasped  137 

Chance,  still  frowning  a  little,  was  absently 
watching  the  various  guilds  pass  by,  when  he  be 
came  conscious  that  a  man  was  working  his  way 
down  the  hillside  through  the  trees  and  the  under 
growth.  He  raised  his  eyes.  After  a  moment 
the  man  emerged  on  a  projecting  rock  and  took 
a  long  look  around.  And  Chance,  when  he  had 
made  him  out,  paused  not  at  all  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  but  turned  and  ran  down  the  steps, 
past  the  marching  toilers  and  through  the  crowd. 
For  the  man  was  Jimmy  Heath,  occasional 
Washington  correspondent  and  leading  reporter 
of  the  New  York  World. 

Chance  crossed  the  brook  on  the  stepping-stones, 
picking  his  way  through  a  group  of  wading  chil 
dren,  who  knew  little  of  the  comedy,  with  its 
half-hidden  suggestion  of  a  tragic  denouement, 
which  was  being  enacted  all  about  them.  The 
crowds  were  streaming  up  the  steps  on  the  farther 
side,  and  through  them  Chance  forced  his  way. 
He  crossed  the  road,  plunged  into  the  bushes, 
and  climbed,  by  a  path  he  knew,  to  an  old  wood 
road  which  circled  around  the  hillside  behind  the 
temple  to  the  upper  camp.  The  view  was  shut 
off  by  the  dense  foliage,  but  after  a  little  he  came 
to  an  open  spot  and  paused  to  look  out  and  down. 


138  Comrade  John 

The  masses  of  color  were  now  extended  the 
entire  length  of  the  promenade.  The  trumpeters 
and  the  choir  were  standing  before  the  temple 
doors,  at  the  top  of  the  cascade.  Their  music 
rang  out  triumphantly  through  the  valley,  and 
a  hundred  little  echoes  rebounded  from  hillside 
to  hillside,  from  rock  to  rock.  A  solitary  figure, 
in  white  and  purple,  was  ascending  the  long 
flight  of  white  steps,  very  deliberately.  And  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps,  just  above  the  mist  of  the 
cascade,  stood  a  small  group,  one  of  whom,  a 
slender  young  woman,  wore  the  costume  of  the 
outer  world. 

Chance  turned  and  moved  on  through  the 
shadowy,  sunflecked  forest.  The  wood-thrushes 
sang  as  he  walked  rapidly,  heedlessly  along. 
The  chipmunks  looked  out  from  the  rocks  and 
chattered  angrily  at  him.  A  porcupine  lumbered 
out  of  the  path  in  fright  and  hid  his  head  under 
a  log  until  the  danger  was  past.  But  Chance  was 
blind  to-day  to  the  myriad  life  of  the  mountain 
side.  He  was  wondering  if  Allah  was  turning 
another  job  over  to  him,  a  job  singularly  like, 
in  certain  particulars,  the  one  he  had  undertaken 
in  Paris  a  few  months  ago.  If  so,  it  would  be 
less  simple  to  manage.  For  this  time  he  was 


The  Person  who  Gasped  139 

not  a  disinterested  spectator.  This  time  he 
could  hardly  play  the  care-free  young  god  out 
of  the  machine.  This  time  he  was  one  of  the 
crowd  from  Julian's. 


CHAPTER   VI 

GODDESS  EXCELLENTLY  BRIGHT 

NOT  until  his  next  cautious  visit  to  New  York, 
a  day  or  two  after  the  close  of  the  convention, 
did  John  Chance  realize  how  completely  his 
Beechcroft  " miracle"  had  fulfilled  its  purpose. 
The  tide  of  visitors  which  flowed  and  ebbed  every 
day  between  Broadrib  Station  and  the  new 
Mecca,  and  never  gave  the  dust  a  chance  to 
settle  between  the  hours  of  the  first  train  from 
town  and  the  last  train  back,  was  after  all  only 
an  insignificant  manifestation  of  a  curiosity  which 
was  stirring  all  the  country.  It  was  a  curiosity 
of  different  sorts,  to  be  sure;  reverent  in  some, 
coolly  sceptical  in  others,  impertinent  in  many 
more,  but  in  one  form  or  another  it  infected  pretty 
much  all  the  newspaper- reading  public,  east,  west, 
south,  everywhere. 

The  "Toilers"  were  triumphant.  Of  course 
they  were  satirized  in  " feature  stories"  and 
frivolous  editorials  of  the  metropolitan  press. 
140 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  141 

The  construction  camp,  for  example,  and  the 
steam  roller  provided  fuel  for  mirth.  But  this 
sort  of  painless  martyrdom  is  just  what  a  new 
religion  thrives  on.  Even  the  threatened  "ex 
posure"  of  Stein  in  one  of  the  ten-cent  magazines 
would  help.  Anything  that  served  to  keep  "Toil 
and  Triumph"  in  the  focus  of  the  public  eye, 
that  prevented  the  wide-awake  national  curiosity 
from  diverting  itself  with  something  else,  was 
grist  to  the  mill. 

And  there  were  indications,  apparent  to 
Chance's  observant  eye  even  in  Beechcroft,  that 
this  curiosity,  while  it  lasted,  was  to  be  worked 
for  all  it  was  worth.  The  huge  hotel  at  Broad- 
rib  Station,  rushing  to  completion  as  fast  as  the 
flimsiest  construction  would  permit,  and  a  second 
one  out  near  the  entrance  to  the  lower  valley, 
which  was  to  be  twice  as  expensive  and  only  half 
as  ugly,  these  hinted  at  it  plainly  enough.  But 
down  in  New  York  were  the  mountains  of  "Toil 
and  Triumph"  which  amazed  the  eye  in  all  the 
book  stores;  it  was  the  new  edition,  hot  from 
the  press  in  time  for  the  convention,  and  changed 
just  enough  from  the  former  one  so  that  all  the 
faithful  would  have  to  buy  it;  and  it  was  half 
a  dollar  more  expensive,  too,  for  they  were  charg- 


142  Comrade  John 

ing  "what  the  traffic  would  bear"  for  it.  There 
were  jewellers'  windows  solid  full  of  souvenir 
spoons  bearing  the  Beechcroft  stamp,  and  selling, 
on  the  strength  of  it,  at  a  rate  of  about  two  dollars 
and  a  half  an  ounce.  And  these  things  told  of 
a  wider  public. 

The  last  thing  Chance  had  noted  before  tak 
ing  the  new  "Beechcroft  Special"  at  Weehawken 
was  the  pyrographic  and  raffia- work  outfits  which 
he  saw  in  one  of  Macy's  windows,  selling,  by 
virtue  of  this  same  Beechcroft  stamp  on  the  box, 
for  a  good  sixty  per  cent  more  than  they  were 
worth.  The  sight  of  them  set  Chance  to  won 
dering  whether  Stein's  financial  executive  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  buy  the  output  of  the  factory 
and  put  the  label  on,  or  whether  he  had  adopted 
the  simpler  expedient  of  charging  a  royalty  for 
the  use  of  the  precious  stamp. 

The  fact  that  he  did  not  know  brought  it 
home  to  him  that  he  was  not  in  Stein's  confidence 
any  further  than  his  own  part  of  the  work  took 
him,  and  that  was  less  and  less  as  he  got  on  with 
it.  The  beautifully  organized  financial  orbit 
of  the  game  intersected  his  only  at  the  point  of 
his  quarterly  check  for  twelve  thousand  five 
hundred  dollars.  There  was  something  ele- 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  143 

mental  about  Stein,  something  as  remorseless 
as  the  forces  of  nature.  He  absorbed  everything 
about  him  that  he  could  use,  and  the  residuum 
he  cast  up  in  a  sort  of  moraine  along  his  trail. 
He  gave  nothing  back;  there  were  no  tracks 
leading  away  from  his  den.  Poor  Burkett,  if 
Chance  could  have  introduced  his  evidence, 
Burkett,  who  had  written  "Toil  and  Triumph" 
at  a  weekly  salary,  might  have  expanded  that 
thesis  to  formidable  proportions. 

But  on  the  warm  June  afternoon  when  Chance 
climbed  unobtrusively  down  from  the  Beechcroft 
Special  at  Excelsior  Siding,  he  was  in  no  mood 
to  quarrel  with  anything,  let  alone  his  exclusion 
from  the  prophet's  confidence  and  his  inner 
councils.  Having  the  boundaries  of  his  job 
defined  in  this  way,  defined  also  his  responsi 
bility.  He  had  agreed  to  "reconstruct  Beech- 
croft  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Stein,"  and  he 
was  doing  that  amply.  That  the  new  religion 
was  immensely  profitable  to  Mr.  Stein  and  to 
his  financial  backers,  or  that  it  was  immensely 
unprofitable  to  Mr.  Stein's  disciples,  was  positively 
none  of  his  business. 

Anyway,  they  were  having  a  good  time,  those 
disciples.  They  had  nothing  hard  or  disagree- 


144  Comrade  John 

able  to  do,  and  one  of  the  loveliest  places  in  the 
world  in  which  to  do  it.  They  were  a  lot  better 
off,  when  all  was  said,  with  their  bare  legs  and 
tunics,  up  in  this  sweet- smelling  valley,  than  the 
sweaty,  derby-hatted  disciples  of  Mammon  down 
town,  and  perhaps  no  worse  deluded. 

He  took  off  his  own  hat  and  let  the  wind  rumple 
his  hair.  Now  that  the  back  of  his  task  was 
broken,  he  meant  to  enjoy  taking  things  easy  for 
a  while.  He  was  glad  of  an  excuse  for  donning 
his  tunic  again  and  spending  a  few  weeks  more 
out  in  the  tingling  mountain  air  —  glad  that  he 
was  a  Beechcrofter  himself,  temporarily. 

But  being  a  Beechcrofter,  it  seemed,  had  no 
charm  for  Bill  Hemenway.  Bill  was  waiting 
for  him  in  a  buggy  at  Excelsior  Siding,  cloaked 
in  a  black  melancholy  which  seemed  to  deepen 
at  Chance's  smile,  and  on  which  the  cheering 
effect  of  a  big  cigar  was  no  more  than  momentary. 

"Temple  burned  up?"  Chance  inquired  ironi 
cally. 

"No,"  said  Bill,  "everything's  about  as  you 
left  it,  Mr.  Chance.  Just  about." 

Chance  laughed.  "Our  imitation  disciples 
haven't  struck,  have  they?  Against  a  six- hour 
day  and  full  time  for  ten?" 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  145 

"They  might  about  as  well,  for  all  they're 
getting  done.  You  can  get  about  as  much  real 
work  out  of  them  as  you  could  get  out  of  a  litter 
of  yellow  pups.  We  can't  do  nothing  with  them. 
What  can  we  do,  with  all  them  Steinites  mooning 
around  all  day,  bringing  them  drinks  from  the 
spring  and  putting  fool  ideas  into  their  thick 
heads?  McCune  goes  around  and  swears  at 
them  nights,  but  it  don't  do  no  good  on  the  job 
—  if  you  call  this  a  job.  Everybody  has  got 
lazy  but  McCune  and  me,  even  Henry." 

"Good  for  Henry,"  grinned  Chance.  "I  feel 
lazy  myself.  But  if  you're  feeling  energetic,  you 
can  whip  up  this  old  plug  of  a  horse.  I  want  to 
get  into  my  tunic  again." 

The  play  of  the  whip  about  the  old  horse's 
flanks  was  less  perhaps  to  the  purpose  Chance 
suggested  than  as  a  vent  for  Bill's  otherwise  un 
expressed  exasperation.  They  drove  a  mile  or 
more  in  silence,  and  it  was  not  until  their  road 
took  them  through  the  now  abandoned  construc 
tion  camp  that  he  turned  to  his  chief  again. 

"Bring    them   back    here,    Mr.    Chance,"    he 

pleaded.     "Put  up  your  canvas  again  around  the 

buildings,    and    tell     those     long-haired    never- 

sweats  to  get  to  hell  out  of  there.     And  make 

L 


146  Comrade  John 

those  boys  work.  Let  me  and  McCune  get  busy 
and  drive  them  some.  No  job  ever  got  done  this 
way  but  Hobbema's  hen-coop.  And  that's  about 
the  way  these  last  buildings  will  look  if  we  go  on 
like  this.  We  can  do  it,  do  it  in  a  month,  like 
we  done  the  dam  and  the  temple,  if  you'll  only 
give  us  a  chance." 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Bill,"  his  chief  said 
thoughtfully,  "is  that  you  only  understand  one 
kind  of  a  job,  the  kind  we  did  on  the  temple  and 
the  dam.  That  job  was  to  get  something  done, 
no  matter  how.  We  did  it  so  fast  we  took  their 
breath,  and  it  was  all  over  and  the  canvas  put 
away  before  they  knew  what  had  happened. 
But  it  wouldn't  work  again.  We  took  long 
chances  trying  it  once,  and  we  only  did  it  because 
there  was  no  other  way." 

"Well,  it  worked,"  said  Bill.  "They  all 
believed  it;  it  was  too  easy  and  too  successful 
for  them  to  do  anything  else.  And  I  don't  see 
why  it  wouldn't  work  again." 

"In  the  first  place,  there  are  sceptics  looking 
on  now  as  well  as  believers,  people  who  can  see 
through  a  ladder.  And  the  believers  themselves 
don't  really  believe  it;  they  think  they  do,  that's 
all.  The  whole  job  from  now  on  is  to  make  them 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  147 

believe  it  so  that  they  won't  have  to  stop  to  think. 
Frame  that  idea  up  where  you  can  look  at  it 
twice  a  day.  Make  these  few  men  we've  kept 
act  like  the  Beechcrofters.  Of  course  they'll 
be  lazy;  I  kept  the  laziest  and  the  stupidest  ones 
of  the  whole  bunch,  and  you  ought  to  be  able  to 
see  why.  And  get  the  disciples  to  help;  draw 
them  into  it  —  talk  their  talk  if.  you  can. 
See  that  the  men  themselves  and  McCune  don't 
talk  at  all.  It's  one  of  the  ground  rules  here  that 
you  don't  have  to  answer  when  people  speak  to 
you;  you're  supposed  to  be  in  contemplation, 
as  they  say,  and  it's  precious  lucky  for  us  it's  so. 
Rub  that  into  McCune;  he  mustn't  swear  at  all, 
at  anybody;  not  even  nights."  He  had  been 
talking  with  a  good  deal  of  emphasis  and  a  touch 
of  impatience,  for  this  was  by  no  means  his  first 
attempt  to  impress  the  significance  of  the  new 
job  on  his  superintendent.  But  now,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  he  smiled.  "I'd  hate  to  be 
one  of  McCune's  gang  when  he  gets  a  job  marked 
rush  again,"  he  said. 

When  most  of  the  real  workmen  at  Beechcroft 
had  been  paid  off,  and  the  score  or  so  Chance 
retained  had  been  dressed  in  tunics  and  housed 
in  the  lower  valley  like  real  disciples,  he  had 


148  Comrade  John 

moved  his  quarters  too.  He  had  a  pleasant, 
though,  needless  to  say,  "artistic"  little  cottage 
not  far  from  the  stream,  and  about  in  the  middle 
of  the  valley.  Hither  he  now  made  his  way, 
intent  on  shedding  his  city  clothes  and  getting 
into  his  cool  gray  tunic  and  sandals  as  speedily 
as  possible. 

The  change  once  effected,  his  manner  became 
leisurely  again.  He  strolled  out  into  his  shady 
veranda  and  idly  scanned  the  valley,  at  first 
merely  with  the  eye  and  then,  though  not  as 
if  looking  for  anything  particular,  with  a  field- 
glass.  The  scrutiny  was  productive  of  nothing 
in  the  way  of  interest,  and  he  stood  musing  awhile 
after  putting  them  down.  Presently  he  went 
out  across  the  already  sun-tanned  meadow  to 
the  flat  top  of  a  big  rock  that  jutted  over  the 
stream. 

The  surface  of  a  pool,  ten  feet  or  more  below, 
smiled  an  invitation  to  him,  which  the  warm, 
late  June,  mid-afternoon  sun,  beating  on  his 
bare  head  and  reflecting  from  the  smooth  face 
of  the  rock,  seconded.  His  tunic  and  sandals 
interposed  no  veto,  so,  straightening  his  arms 
above  his  head,  he  sprang  well  out  into  the  air, 
seemed  for  an  instant  to  hang,  motionless,  like 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  149 

a  bent  bow,  and  then,  straightening  out,  shot 
downward  and  cleft  the  smiling,  placid  surface 
of  the  pool  with  hardly  a  splatter. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  flight  he  heard  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise  that  made  him  check  the 
momentum  of  his  shallow  dive  as  quickly  as 
possible  and  strike  out  for  the  nearer  shore. 
He  scrambled  out  on  a.  shelving  bit  of  gravel, 
picked  his  way  round  a  big  boulder  into  a  dry, 
moss-grown  grotto,  formed  by  the  jutting  ledge 
of  rock  from  which  he  had  dived,  and  stood  face 
to  face  with  Cynthia. 

He  looked  at  her,  tried,  with  an  impatient 
gesture,  to  wipe  away  with  his  wet  hands  the  water 
that  was  trickling  down  into  his  eyes,  then  looked 
again,  still  without  speaking.  She  looked  at 
him,  too,  flushing  a  little,  her  lips  slightly  parted. 
The  silence  lasted  until,  with  something  of  an 
effort,  she  broke  it. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  back  from  New  York." 

"I  only  came  this  moment,"  he  said  absently. 
"I  searched  the  valley  —  with  a  glass,  not 
knowing,  quite,  for  what  —  not  knowing  it 
was  for  you."  He  repeated  his  former  gesture 
and  shook  the  water  from  his  hair. 

"  There    are    some    lines    of    poetry  —  some- 


150  Comrade  John 

where,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  quite  recall  them. 
1  Queen  and  Huntress — '  They  won't  come 
for  me." 

"  Oh,  I  know  them."  She  spoke  with  a  sort  of 
nervous  eagerness,  and  began  repeating  old  Ben 
Jonson's  lovely  little  hymn  to  Diana.  But 
under  his  gaze  the  flush  in  her  cheeks  mantled 
deeper  and  deeper,  and  soon,  a  little  out  of  breath, 
she  broke  off,  leaving  the  hymn  unfinished. 

"'Goddess,  excellently  bright!'"  he  echoed, 
and  added  thoughtfully,  "it's  your  hymn,  you 
know.  Cynthia  was  just  one  of  her  names. — 
How  did  they  know  that  you  were  going  to  look 
like  moonlight?" 

For  a  moment  she  had  no  word  at  all  to  say; 
then,  with  an  effort,  she  managed  to  rally  her 
scattered  wits.  A  glint  of  mockery  came  into 
her  eyes.  "They  named  me  after  my  Aunt 
Cynthia,"  she  said,  "Aunt  Augusta's  sister." 

He  did  not  smile;  his  eyes  still  gazed  thought 
fully  out  over  the  shining  surface  of  the  pool, 
and  she  became  clearly  aware  that  if  any  one  were 
to  command  this  situation,  and  it  seemed  high 
time  that  some  one  did,  it  must  be  herself.  It 
had  always  been  his  task  before,  but  to-day, 
without  warning  or  ceremony,  he  had  abandoned 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  151 

it  and  she  must  take  it  up.  She  did  not  much 
want 'to;  she  had  to  resist  pretty  hard  an  im 
pulse  to  fall  in  with  his  own  new  mood.  Her 
voice  jarred  horribly  on  her  own  ears  when  next 
she  spoke. 

"How  do  you  like  my  new  clothes?"  she  asked. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  in  any 
dress  but  that  of  the  twentieth  century.  In 
fact,  the  thing  that  had  first  mitigated  his  dismay 
on  discovering  that  she  had  chosen  the  unhealthy, 
sentimental  atmosphere  of  Beechcroft  in  which 
to  work  at  the  job  he  had  once  advised  her  to 
find,  was  the  reassuring  fact  that  she  had  brought 
her  sense  of  humor  along  with  her.  She  had 
spurned  the  lank  robes  of  her  sister  disciples 
and  announced  her  intention  of  devising  some 
thing  which  should  at  once  accord  with  the  simple 
beauty  of  the  new  religion  and  still  possess  the 
added  advantage  of  not  making  her  look  like 
a  frump.  She  would  not  consent  to  look  like 
a  figure  out  of  the  chorus  of  Patience  for  her 
Aunt  Augusta  nor  the  prophet,  Stein,  nor  for 
anybody.  She  pleased  John  Chance,  and  ma 
terially  relieved  his  mind,  by  telling  him  so.  If 
she  were  in  as  sane  a  mood  as  that,  he  reflected, 
Beechcroft  would  not  hurt  her  much. 


152  Comrade  John 

Well,  she  had  solved  her  problem  triumphantly. 
The  white  serge  robe  with  its  silver  embroidered 
"walls of  Troy"  had  the  look  of  an  Empire  gown, 
but  with  all  the  Gallic  frivolity  purified  out  of  it. 
She  was  clad,  not  swathed,  in  it,  like  her  sister 
toilers,  and  the  dead  white  and  silver  of  the  robe 
made  warm  and  faintly  flushed  and  human  what 
it  revealed  of  her  throat  and  slender  arms.  Her 
amazing,  luminous  hair  was  confined  in  a  broad, 
pale  gold  ampyx  with  opal  buckles  and  a  net  of 
finely  corded  gold  threads. 

Chance  did  not  look  at  her  when  she  asked 
him  how  he  liked  them,  and  his  reply  made  the 
fact  that  he  did  not  significant.  "I  suppose 
they  were  a  part  of  what  took  my  breath,"  he 
said  slowly.  "I've  never  seen  you  so  before. 
You've  always  been  —  shaded,  before;  even  that 
afternoon  of  carnival." 

She  had  a  reply  ready  this  time,  the  light 
common- sensical  sentence  she  needed  to  pull 
him  back  to  the  plane  of  every  day ;  but  she  hesi 
tated  to  utter  it,  hesitated  until  he  spoke  again. 

"I  came  up  from  New  York  a  day  sooner  than 
I  meant.  I  felt  in  a  hurry  to  be  back.  I  was 
impatient  of  the  slow  drive  from  the  station,  and 
of  Bill  Hemenway,  who  had  come  to  meet  me 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  153 

and  wanted  to  tell  me  his  troubles.  Something 
was  drawing  me  back  here,  and  I  didn't  know 
what  it  was.  I  didn't  know  until  I  came  around 
from  behind  that  rock  and  saw  you." 

"I  wish,"  Cynthia  began;  her  voice  did  not 
sound  quite  right,  but  she  went  steadily  on.  "I 
wish  I  could  solve  the  problem  of  my  life  here 
as  successfully  as  I  seem  to  have  solved  the 
problem  of  my  clothes."  Her  speech  was  broken 
by  many  pauses,  and  punctuated  by  the  little 
pebbles  which  idly,  from  time  to  time,  she  tossed 
into  the  pool.  "  Though  I'm  not  sure  that  I've 
succeeded  with  them.  Aunt  Augusta  thinks 
they're  too  conspicuous,  and  of  course  she's  right. 
But  I  just  couldn't  put  on  those  clinging,  drag 
ging  things  the  rest  wear.  —  Oh,  I'd  have  done 
it  if  you  had — "  she  looked  at  him,  smiling, 
—  "ordered  me  to;  but  you  didn't.  And 
Mr.  Stein  likes  these.  He  said  something  — 
well,  about  letting  my  light  shine  and  about  it 
being  my  duty." 

His  silence  no  longer  troubled  her.  She  was* 
no  longer  making  up  things  to  say,  and  as  she 
went  on  she  was  talking  quite  as  much  to  herself 
as  to  him.  "I  suppose  one  ought  to  have  some 
thing  I  lack,  or  to  lack  something  I  have,  to  be 


154  Comrade  John 

even  a  good  disciple;  and  Mr.  Stein  wants  me 
to  help  him  inspire  the  others  and  —  and  convert 
them.  When  he  talks  to  me  I  can  feel  it  all. 
And  I  feel  it  still  more  when  I  look  up  at  the  upper 
valley  and  see  what  he  did  —  what  he  is  doing 
right  before  our  eyes.  When  I  see  that  lovely 
dream  of  his  coming  true,  coming  true  under  our 
clumsy  hands,  I  feel  ashamed  that  I'm  so  petty 
and  frivolous.  There's  a  sort  of  glow  away  down 
deep  in  me  that  tries  to  come  out,  tries  to  make 
me  something  different.  But  the  rest  of  it  — 

"Oh,  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  understand. 
You're  one  of  his  builders,  you're  right  there, 
a  part  of  the  miracle.  But  when  I  try  to  make 
things,  it  doesn't  make  my  soul  flower;  it  just 
makes  me  feel  ridiculous.  And  what  the  others 
make  is  ridiculous,  sometimes.  Aunt  Augusta 
is  weaving  a  rug,  and  she's  so  solemn  and  earnest 
about  it  that  it's  —  well,  downright  common  and 
ill-bred  to  smile  over  it.  But  I  do.  I  make 
fun  of  it,  and  hurt  her  feelings  dreadfully.  I  bite 
'my  tongue  for  it  afterward,  but  that's  too  late 
to  do  any  good." 

This  time  it  was  a  larger  pebble  that  fell  with 
an  impatient  splash  into  the  pool.  "I  suppose 
you're  wondering  whether  it  was  worth  the  trouble 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  155 

sending  me  home  from  Paris,  from  what  I  thought 
was  looking-glass  country.  I'm  not  much  good. 
I'm  idle  and  discontented  here  just  as  I  was 
before,  except  when  I  look  up  the  valley  at  that 
dream  that's  coming  true.  If  I  could  have  it 
before  my  eyes  always  —  perhaps  I  could  be 
the  —  the  priestess  he  wants  to  make  me.  If 
you  would  help  me  again  the  way  you  did  that 
night  in  Paris  —  It  isn't  very  inspiring  to  have 
Mr.  Pole  painting  another  portrait  of  me." 

That  stung  her  companion  out  of  his  revery, 
and  he  turned  upon  her.  "Pole !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Mr.  Stein  wanted  him  to.  It's  not  begun 
yet.  He's  still  fussing  around  trying  to  find 
a  pose  and  the  place  to  paint  me.  I  suppose  he 
will  go  making  'arrangements'  for  weeks  before 
he  really  begins.  That's  why  we  came  down 
to  this  grotto.  He's  gone  back  to  his  studio  to 
get  some  draperies  and  pillows  and  things." 

"So  he's  coming  back  here,"  said  Chance. 
Then  he  got  briskly  to  his  feet  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  her.  "Come,"  he  said. 

A  little  surprised,  but  with  a  smile  flowering  on 
her  lips,  she  said,  "Where?" 

"Wherever  we  shan't  have  to  expect  him  to 
make  a  third." 


156  Comrade  John 

She  hesitated,  but  still  smiling.  This  brusque, 
decisive  man  was  much  more  like  the  one  she 
felt  she  knew.  Already  he  was  leading  the  way 
around  the  boulder  and  toward  the  upper  end 
of  the  pool.  With  something  like  a  laugh,  she 
followed. 

An  awkward  row  of  stepping-stones  crossed  the 
brook  at  this  point,  but  the  water  was  high,  and 
two  of  them,  in  the  middle,  were  submerged. 
He  turned  and  held  out  his  arms.  "I'll  carry 
you  over,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  and  colored  a  little,  but  shook  her 
head.  "I'd  hardly  do  what  you  did,  —  dive  into 
the  pool  just  as  I  am,  but  I  don't  mind  going 
ankle  deep." 

He  hesitated,  but  finally  nodded  assent.  "It 
will  rid  us  of  Pole,  anyway.  Six  inches  of  water 
will  stop  him." 

"He's  like  a  bloodhound,  isn't  he,"  she  sug 
gested,  and  both  of  them  paid  the  small  joke  rather 
more  in  the  way  of  laughter  than  it  was  worth. 
She  crossed  with  no  more  assistance  than  the 
clasp  of  his  hand,  and  even  this  was  gratuitous. 

And  when  they  were  over,  when  they  had 
crossed  the  rock  ledges  on  the  farther  side,  even 
when  they  began  the  easy  assent  of  the  broad, 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  157 

well-beaten  trail,  when  what  had  been  a  mere 
courtesy  became  a  caress,  he  still  held  the  hand 
in  his. 

The  action  brought  up  to  her  mind  a  memory 
which  had  frequented  it  much  of  late;  of  an 
evening  in  a  Paris  restaurant  and  a  moment 
when  he  had  reached  across  the  table  and  taken 
both  her  hands,  held  them,  for  a  breath  or  two, 
in  a  grip  that  almost  hurt,  a  moment  when  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  pulling  her  up,  bodily, 
over  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  After  a  moment 
like  that  he  had  a  right  to  her  hands  if  he  wanted 
them.  It  would  be  absurd,  childish,  to  deny 
them  to  him.  That  was  the  way  the  matter  — 
and  no  great  matter,  either,  she  told  herself — • 
would  certainly  have  appeare'd  to  the  cool, 
friendly,  well-poised  Cynthia  she  was  still  trying 
to  be;  so  for  a  little  while  it  lay,  trembling  very 
much  in  spite  of  her,  against  his  palm. 

But  she  could  not  endure  it;  the  contact  was 
too  live.  It  carried  a  message  only  half  intel 
ligible  and  wholly  bewildering.  Presently,  as 
gently  as  she  could,  she  drew  it  away.  He  walked 
on  steadily  beside  her,  helping  her,  where  she 
needed  it,  over  the  rough  parts  of  the  way,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  They  had  left  the  trail, 


158  Comrade  John 

and  soon  came  out  at  the  place  he  had  been  leading 
her  to,  a  pleasant,  warm  little  terrace  she  had 
never  found  before,  well  up  the  side  of  the  north 
ridge. 

"Is  this  where  you  were  taking  me ?"  she  asked, 
but  seated  herself  without  waiting  for  a  reply  on 
a  big,  half- embedded  stone  and  clasped  her  knee 
in  her  two  hands.  "It's  lovely  —  How  near  your 
house  looks  down  there  —  If  we  could  only  see 
the  lake  and  the  temple,  it  would  be  perfect." 

"There  are  times  when  I  like  not  to  see  the 
lake  and  the  temple,"  he  said. 

She  wondered  why,  but  he  offered  no  explana 
tion,  and  she  asked  for  none.  She  sat  there, 
nursing  her  knee  and  letting  her  gaze  run  idly 
over  the  cottages  and  trim  gardens  of  Beechcroft. 

"Some  one  is  trying  to  get  into  your  house," 
she  said  presently.  "He's  been  knocking  at 
your  front  door,  and  now  he's  going  around  to 
the  back.  It  can't  be  Mr.  Pole,  can  it?" 

"He'd  never  try  both  doors,  even  if  he  wanted 
to  see  me,  which  he  doesn't.  We  can  forget 
him  altogether." 

"I'd  feel  a  little  guilty  about  that  — letting 
him  carry  those  pillows  and  silk  draperies  down 
there  to  the  grotto  for  nothing  —  if  you  hadn't 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  159 

ordered  me  to  do  it."  She  laughed.  "I  wonder 
why  I  go  on  minding  you.  I  do,  somehow.  It's 
getting  to  be  a  habit  with  me.  I  never  did  it 
for  any  one  before,  and  I  seem  to  like  it." 

"You  mustn't  mind  me  any  more,"  he  said 
soberly. 

"You  don't  want  the  responsibility?"  she 
questioned,  mocking.  "You're  tired  of  having 
me  for  part  of  your  job  ?  " 

But  she  could  not  get  a  smile  from  him.  "I'm 
not  fit  for  the  job,"  he  said.  Then  he  roused  him 
self  and  added,  almost  roughly:  "Don't  mind  me. 
Don't  mind  anybody.  Don't  mind  Stein." 

A  puzzled  look  came  into  her  eyes.  "But  you 
mind  Mr.  Stein,  don't  you?"  The  quietness 
of  her  manner  contrasted  strongly  with  his. 
"We  all  do,  don't  we?" 

"Not  in  the  way  I  mean  you  shouldn't.  He's 
not  the  gate  of  heaven.  He's  a  man.  He's 
fallible,  like  any  other  man." 

She  sighed.  "I  suppose  I  see  what  you  mean. 
But  I  wish  things  were  clearer.  I  wish  I  could 
make  it  seem  worth  while  to  bind  flabby  little 
books,  or  weave  rugs  like  Aunt  Augusta's." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  one 
could  find  a  real  job,  even  here  at  Beechcroft." 


160  Comrade  John 

The  words  were  part  of  the  expression  of  a 
mood  as  new  to  himself  as  it  was  to  Cynthia. 
From  the  moment  he  had  come  upon  her  beside 
the  pool  he  had  been  in  the  grip  of  a  set  of  forces 
he  did  not  understand.  He  was  bewildered, 
half  afraid,  like  those  Genoese  mariners  whom 
the  mysterious  trade-wind  was  carrying  out  to 
the  world's  edge ;  like  one  following  an  unknown 
clew  through  a  labyrinth.  And  in  this  mood 
he  kicked  impatiently  at  the  Beechcroft  Idea  as 
a  man  does  at  an  insignificant  obstacle  he  stumbles 
over  in  the  dark. 

But  Cynthia's  next  words  had  an  imperative 
quality  in  them  that  pierced  even  so  heavy  an 
abstraction  as  his.  "You  believe  in  Beechcroft, 
don't  you?  You're  here  with  us  because  you 
believe  it  ?  It  isn't  for  some  —  some  other  reason 
altogether  that  you're  here?" 

"No,"  he  said.     "It's  not  for  any  other  reason." 

The  moment  the  words  were  uttered  silence 
settled  down  between  them,  a  silence  that  vi 
brated  with '  a  strange  sort  of  excitement.  He 
went  over  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace  and  stood 
looking  down  the  valley.  He  was  not  thinking 
of  the  lie,  nor  even  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
lied  to  her.  He  was  not  really  thinking  at 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  161 

all,  but  standing  astonished,  rather,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  miracle. 

For  the  lie,  which  had  come  to  his  lips  auto 
matically  enough,  had  been  like  the  magic  chemi 
cal  reagent  added  to  a  muddy  compound  in  a 
beaker,  transforming  it  in  an  instant  into  a  flash 
ing,  crystalline  liquor  with  a  slimy  deposit  at  the 
bottom  of  the  glass.  It  had  been  a  sword-flash 
which  had  shorn  asunder  the  veil  that  hung 
before  his  Holy  of  Holies.  A  long  time  he  stood 
there  in  the  deep  recessed  silence  of  the  hills, 
a  hazy  June  sky,  cloud-streaked,  before  his  un 
seeing  eyes.  The  blood  was  drumming  in  his 
temples,  drumming  a  wild  song.  He  knew,  at 
last,  whither  the  mysterious,  eternal  trade-wind 
had  been  carrying  him.  He  had  discovered  his 
New  World. 

She  had  risen  too,  and  stood  not  far  away, 
out  in  the  frank  sunshine,  the  wind  blowing  her 
robe  into  a  closer  embrace  of  her  lithe  body. 
Her  unblown  hair,  held  fast  in  the  ampyx  and 
the  golden  net,  looked,  in  its  strange  contrast  with 
the  clinging,  fluttering  robe,  like  the  steadfast 
glory  of  a  saint.  "She  made  me  think  of  the 
Angel  of  the  Resurrection,"  some  one  had  said 
of  her  once  before,  and  the  sentence  came  back 


1 62  Comrade  John 

into  Chance's  mind  as,  after  a  stolen,  momentary 
glance  at  her,  he  lowered  his  eyes. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  unsteadily  —  his  voice 
was  curiously  harsh  in  quality,  hardly  articulate 
at  all  —  "I  wonder  whether  any  man  has  ever 
told  you  that  he  loved  you."  After  a  little  silence 
he  went  on  more  evenly,  but  still  without  look 
ing  up  at  her.  "A  man  couldn't  do  that  — 
couldn't  offer  that,  unless  he  —  expected  it 
back ;  unless  it  seemed  natural  and  —  right 
that  it  should  be  given  back  to  him.  And  with 
you,  a  man  would  be  more  likely  to  go  away, 
and  keep  you  —  among  his  dreams,  not  daring 
to  think  they  could  come  true.  After  the  day 
in  Paris  you  seemed  like  that  to  me,  seemed  like 
an  apparition.  I  suppose  that  is  the  real  reason, 
though  I  didn't  know  it,  why  I  wouldn't  let  you 
tell  me  your  name;  because  I  felt  you  belonged 
with  my  dreams  and  not  with  my  realities.  The 
only  way  I  tried  to  make  the  dream  come  true 
was  by  trying  to  build  you  into  that  temple 
at  the  head  of  the  valley.  —  And  yet,  in  these 
days  since  you  came  here,  until  to-day  when  I 
found  you  there  beside  the  pool,  you've  seemed 
different.  All  the  way  up  from  New  York  this 
afternoon  I  was  as  happy  as  a  boy  just  because 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  163 

I  was  coming  back  to  you,  no  more  in  awe  of  you 
than  if  you  had  been  a  child.  You've  been  a 
comrade  to  me  for  this  little  handful  of  days. 
I  liked  the  way  you  made  a  parade  of  obeying 
me,  liked  feeling  older  and  more  experienced 
and  — "  he  interrupted  himself  with  a  short 
laugh — "  wiser  than  you.  But  to-day,  when 
I  came  upon  you,  crowned,  when  I  saw  the  full 
glory  of  you,  unshaded,  you  seemed  an  apparition 
again.  To-day,  suddenly,  I  found  myself  — 
afraid." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  he  heard  her  moving 
past  him  on  the  grass,  and  knew,  without  raising 
his  eyes,  that  she  had  gone  back  to  the  half-em 
bedded  rock  that  had  served  as  her  seat  before. 
At  last  — 

"Look,"  she  said. 

He  obeyed  her.  She  had  been  fumbling  at  the 
opal  buckles  which  held  the  pale  gold  ampyx 
and  the  net,  and  at  the  moment  he  raised  his 
eyes  she  succeeded  in  releasing  them.  Her  hair, 
bound  before,  immobile,  a  steadfast  glory  like 
an  angel's  aureole,  fell  in  a  loose  coil  on  the  nape 
of  her  white  neck,  and  little  crinkled  love-locks 
of  it  caressed  her  ears.  And  somehow  the 
simple  decoronation  made  her  a  girl  again.  Her 


164  Comrade  John 

eyes  were  bright,  but  with  tears,  with  a  light  that 
was  very  human,  very  wistful.  The  ampyx  and 
the  golden  net  dangled  from  her  trembling  fingers. 

He  understood.  And  yet  he  hesitated ;  he,  too, 
stayed  trembling  where  he  was.  A  new  sort  of 
timidity  held  him,  a  timidity  bred  of  the  very 
things  that  are  supposed  to  destroy  such  a  feel 
ing, —  sophistication,  experience,  long  life  in  the 
"  world,"  in  various  worlds.  The  numerous  little 
will-o'-the-wisps  of  love  he  had  followed  at  one 
time  or  another  with  such  care-free  abandon, 
made  the  effulgence  of  this  light  an  awesome  thing 
to  approach.  It  was  not  as  a  goddess  that  she 
awed  him,  it  was  as  a  maid.  He  met  her  eyes, 
indeed,  but  that  was  all. 

The  silence  that  fell  between  them  was  invaded 
by  a  sound  below  on  the  hillside,  a  sound  of 
crackling  twigs  and  the  swish  of  bushes  that  caught 
at  some  intruder  in  a  vain  attempt  to  stop  his 
progress.  The  steady  crescendo  of  these  sounds 
made  it  evident  that  he,  whoever  he  might  be, 
was  coming  straight  toward  their  terrace,  and 
presently  Chance,  who  had  walked  down  to  the 
edge  of  it,  caught  sight  of  him.  He  was  a  car 
penter  named  Hicks,  one  of  the  precious  twenty 
retained  because  they  could  be  trusted  not  to 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  165 

work  too  hard  nor  to  exercise  an  embarrassing 
amount  of  intelligence. 

The  sight  of  him  affected  Chance  unpleasantly. 
It  was  not  the  moment  he  would  have  chosen  for 
having  this  fraud,  in  which  he  had  been  Stein's 
partner  and  of  which  Cynthia  herself  was  one 
of  the  victims,  thrust  in  his  face.  It  came  to 
rather  more  than  that,  too.  Seeing  him  there, 
as  he  supposed,  alone,  the  man  was  likely  enough 
to  say  something  which  would  betray,  if  not  the 
whole  thing,  at  least  altogether  too  much.  The 
expedient  which  instantly  occurred  to  him,  of 
silencing  him  by  a  sight  of  Cynthia,  he  as  promptly 
dismissed.  She  should  not  be  profaned  at  this 
moment  by  any  other  eyes  than  his,  let  alone 
should  she  be  used,  unconsciously,  in  playing  any 
part  of  his  game. 

What  he  did  was  to  walk  down  the  hill  a  little 
way  to  meet  Hicks.  He  felt  like  a  sneak  for 
doing  as  much  as  that,  and  his  manner  to  the 
carpenter  was  not  conciliatory. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"They  told  me  as  I'd  find  you  at  your  'ouse, 
sir;  and  I  went  there  and  waited.  And  when  I 
got  tired  waiting  I  took  a  look  around  with  your 
glass  and  made  you  out  up  'ere.  So  I  took  the 


1 66  Comrade  John 

liberty  to  follow.     I  want  to  arsk  just  one  ques 
tion.     'Oo  is  the  boss  of  this  job?" 

"Don't  shout,"  said  Chance,  sharply.  "I  am, 
and  you  know  it.  What's  your  real  question?" 

"Well,  then,  here's  my  real  question,  if  you 
want  it.  That  little  rat  with  the  blue  band  around 
him,  —  him  they  call  the  Overseer,  —  is  he  to  come 
overseeing  me  and  'indering  my  work  whenever 
he  takes  the  notion?  Am  I  to  take  orders  from 
'im?" 

"You  know  the  answer  to  that,  too,"  said 
Chance.  "You  are." 

"I  was  minding  my  own  business,  sir,  filing 
a  cross-cut  saw,  and  this  overseer,  'e  comes  along 
and  begins  giving  me  abuse  about  my  'infernal 
din';  those  was  his  words.  And  when  I  paid 
no  attention  to  him,  he  tried  to  take  away  the  saw. 
I  didn't  want  to  make  trouble,  so  I  let  him  take 
it,  and  came  stright  for  you,  sir." 

"  Go  to  the  store  keeper  and  get  a  new  saw,"  said 
Chance.  "I'll  see  about  the  other  later.  You 
should  have  stopped  when  he  first  told  you  to." 

The  words  were  accompanied  with  a  nod  of 
dismissal,  but  the  carpenter  did  not  take  the  hint. 
He  stood  rubbing  his  hands  together  a  moment, 
and  then  laughed.  "Well,  it's  a  queer  job,  sure 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  167 

enough,"  he  said.  "And  maybe  there's  nothing 
scaly  about  it,  and  maybe  there  is.  I'll  not  pre 
sume  to  say."  He  laughed  again,  and  set  off 
down  the  hill. 

Chance  stood  watching  him  as  he  crashed  his 
way  through  the  bushes  down  to  the  trail ;  watched 
until  he  was  out  of  sight  and  remained  gazing 
awhile  after.  He  understood  now  why  the  new 
job  made  Bill  Hemenway  unhappy,  why  he 
couldn't  understand  it.  Bill  was  an  honest  man ! 
And  the  job  was  so  patently  dishonest  that  even 
Hicks's  thick  wits  had  discovered  the  fact.  But 
he  —  himself  — 

A  wry  smile  came  on  his  lips.  What  a  man 
the  prophet  was  !  How  well  he  appraised  men  ! 
How  well  he  had  known  what  he  was  about  when 
he  made  him  that  proposition  up  in  Moberly 
Pole's  studio ! 

And  then  the  smile,  mirthless  as  it  was,  faded. 
Cynthia  was  waiting  there  on  the  terrace  for  him 
to  come  back  to  her;  Cynthia,  whom  he  loved, 
and  who  —  yes,  he  was  honest  enough  to  face 
the  situation  without  blinking  —  who,  he  was 
sure,  loved  him.  Cynthia,  to  whom  he  had  lied, 
and  who  must,  by  now,  have  at  least  an  uneasy 
inkling  of  the  truth. 


1 68  Comrade  John 

Well,  she  should  know  the  truth  now,  without 
palliation,  should  know  the  worst  there  was  to 
tell,  as  starkly  as  he  could  tell  it,  whether  it  left 
any  residue  of  him  that  she  could  love  and  respect 
or  not.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  grim  satisfaction 
that  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  terrace. 

But  when  he  found  her,  when  he  saw  her  rise 
and  come,  half  eager,  half  timid,  a  little  way  to 
meet  him,  he  saw,  even  though  blind  love  of  her 
blurred  his  sight,  that  hers  was  not  the  face  of  one 
waiting  to  sit  in  judgment.  She  guessed  much; 
the  eager,  vivid  curiosity  in  her  eyes  made  that 
plain.  But  it  was  not  for  the  purpose  of  assessing 
the  good  and  the  bad  in  him,  finding  a  verdict 
and  giving  sentence,  that  she  wanted  the  truth. 
She  wanted  it  because  she  wanted  to  share  his 
soul;  wanted  all  the  sin  and  sorrow  in  it  as  well 
as  the  joy,  just  because  it  was  his.  He  knew, 
when  he  had  read  that  look,  that  he  would  be  for 
given;  indeed,  forgiving  'was  hardly  the  term 
she  would  apply  to  it.  And  then  —  then  they 
would  shake  the  dust  of  Beechcroft  from  their 
feet  and  go  out  into  a  cleaner,  sweeter  world, 
together. 

But  at  that,  with  the  words  of  his  confession 
already  framed  on  his  lips,  there  came  something 


Goddess  Excellently  Bright  169 

that  checked  him  like  a  tap  on  a  great  bell; 
something  that  surcharged  itself  in  staring  black 
letters  straight  across  his  moral  retina. 

The  one  thing  more  despicable  than  to  lie 
to  her,  would  be  to  tell  her  the  truth. 

Already  he  was  a  fraud ;  he  was  Stein's  partner 
and  had  pocketed  his  share  of  the  swag.  But 
what  term  would  be  mean  enough  to  describe 
him  if,  after  all,  he  peached ;  if  he  turned  state's 
evidence  against  his  partner  to  secure  immunity 
for  himself.  That,  just  that,  was  what  telling 
Cynthia  the  truth  she  wanted  would  come  to. 

He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  reason,  to  think. 
He  just  held  on,  throttling  by  main  strength 
of  will  the  wild  cry  of  confession  that  his  soul 
set  up.  Something  of  the  struggle  showed  in 
his  face ;  he  was  white  under  his  coat  of  tan,  and 
his  lips  pressed  tightly  together.  But  he  stood 
straight  before  her,  courageously  meeting  her 
eyes.  He  watched  the  light  die  out  of  them  and 
come  again,  accompanied  this  time  by  a  faint 
flush  of  anger.  And  he  saw  that  die  out,  too. 

"I  must  go  back  to  my  work,"  he  said. 

He  turned  to  leave  her,  then  paused.  "Can 
I  help  you  down  the  trail?"  he  asked.  "It's 
pretty  rough." 


170  Comrade  John 

"No,  thanks,"  she  said.  Her  voice  had  the 
perfect  nuance  of  careless  amiability,  and  it  hurt 
like  a  knife-stab. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STAKE  AND  THE  PLAYERS 

THE  curious  and  disquieting  behavior  of  the 
carpenter  Hicks,  though  not  forgotten,  came  to 
be  rather  lost  sight  of  in  the  general  demoraliza 
tion  of  the  working  force  that  daily,  during  the 
ensuing  week  or  so,  was  coming  more  and  more 
seriously  to  be  reckoned  with.  There  was  no 
work  to  be  got  out  of  them,  there  was  no  pos 
sibility  of  enforcing  discipline,  and  at  last  Bill 
Hemenway's  grotesque  prediction  came  true. 
The  men  actually  struck. 

When  that  happened,  there  was  only  one  thing 
to  do.  To  listen  to  a  word  of  their  complaints 
would  only  make  matters  worse.  Chance  ordered 
them  rounded  up  at  the  old  shack  behind  the 
temple,  had  the  whole  crew  paid  off,  and  in  order 
to  be  completely  rid  of  them  as  quickly  as  possible, 
promised  an  extra  week's  pay  to  all  who  should 
catch  the  evening  train  to  the  city. 
171 


172  Comrade  John 

The  bonus  was  large  enough  to  be  attractive 
to  such  riff-raff  as  they  were,  and  Chance  was  a 
little  surprised,  at  the  end  of  an  hour's  work  in 
the  model  room  of  the  shack,  to  be  informed  by 
Henry  Baumann  that  one  of  the  workmen  had 
not  gone,  and  insisted  on  seeing  him. 

"Who  is  the  man?"  Chance  asked.  "What's 
his  name?" 

"A  carpenter  named  Hicks,"  Henry  told  him. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Send  him  into  the  front 
office." 

And  then,  during  the  minute  or  so  that  elapsed, 
his  mind  worked  at  top  speed.  Who  was  this 
man,  Hicks?  Why  had  he,  instead  of  certain 
other,  noisier  men,  been  the  one  to  complain  to 
him  so  insolently.  He  recalled  now,  for  the  first 
time,  that  there  had  always  been  something  dimly 
familiar  in  the  face  and  figure  of  the  man,  some 
thing  familiar  in  the  way  he  climbed  a  scaffold 
and  in  the  way  he  swung  a  hammer.  Then 
abruptly  his  fingers  stopped  drumming  the  table. 
A  curious  expression  came  into  his  face.  For, 
after  all,  in  spite  of  his  care  from  the  moment 
he  first  entered  Beechcroft  to  employ  men  who 
knew  nothing  about  him,  who  did  not  even  know 
his  surname,  here  was  a  fellow  who  had  worked 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  173 

for  him  at  Atlanta  —  no,  at  Omaha  —  no,  at  — 
But  no  matter  where.  Hicks  knew  him.  That 
was  sufficient  to  complicate  an  exceedingly 
delicate  situation.  More  than  this,  the  man  was 
evidently  aware  that  the  knowledge  might  be 
worth  something,  or  he  would  not  so  causally 
have  forfeited  an  extra  pay  envelope. 

Well,  whatever  was  to  be  done,  must  be  done 
quickly.  Wherever  he  was,  at  Beechcroft,  or 
at  New  York,  Hicks  was  pretty  likely  to  prove 
a  high  explosive.  With  what  he  knew,  he  could 
blow  up  the  place.  Chance  had  not  the  slightest 
hold  at  this  moment,  on  any  plan  which  would 
effectually  close  his  mouth.  The  only  plan  he 
could  hit  on,  as  he  sat  there  listening  to  the 
approaching  footsteps,  was  the  temporary  ex 
pedient  of  holding  the  man  at  Beechcroft  until 
he  could  somehow  dispose  of  him. 

Hicks  came  slowly  and  sullenly  into  the  room. 
Chance  gave  no  sign  that  he  heard  him.  Hicks 
cleared  his  throat.  "Look  here,"  he  observed, 
"I've  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

The  remark  faded  out,  for  the  back  of  the 
master  builder  was  imperturbable.  And  when 
at  last  he  swung  around  in  his  chair,  apparently 
he  was  not  aware  that  Hicks  had  spoken. 


174  Comrade  John 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  said,  curtness  and 
buoyant  good -humor  in  his  manner,  "  because  I 
shan't  let  you  go  with  the  others.  I  need  you 
on  the  millwright  work  for  the  present.  That's 
all." 

He  swung  around  again  to  the  table.  The 
only  next  move  which  Hicks  could  hit  on  with 
any  sense  of  fitness  was  to  withdraw.  Accord 
ingly  he  left  the  room  and  the  shack,  and  walked 
down  the  road  into  the  cool,  early  June  evening. 

When  he  had  gone,  Chance  reached  for  the 
desk  telephone,  and  tried  to  get  Hobbema's 
house,  but  could  not  connect.  This  was  annoying. 
But  he  could  telephone  from  the  steel-room  in 
the  temple.  He  had  turned  that  room  over  to 
the  prophet,  but  he  happened  to  know  that  one 
of  the  two  keys  still  lay  here  in  a  drawer  of  his 
desk.  He  did  not  propose  on  this  evening  to 
go  to  Stein.  He  proposed  that  Stein  should  come 
to  him.  And  so  he  found  the  key,  went  down  to 
the  dark  temple,  mounted  the  platform,  crossed 
the  robing-room,  and  coolly  unlocking  the  sacred 
steel  door  and  switching  on  the  drop-light  that 
ornamented  the  mahogany  table,  he  called  up 
the  house  of  the  overseer.  Hobbema  himself 
answered. 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  175 

"Well,  Comrade,"  he  said,  "what  can  I  do 
for  you?" 

"You  can  find  Mr.  Stein,  if  you  will  be  so 
good,"  said  Chance,  "and  ask  him  to  meet  me, 
before  dark,  on  the  steps  of  the  temple.  It  is 
important  that  he  come  to  that  place  just  as 
soon  as  possible." 

Hobbema  mused.  This  was  an  extraordinary 
request.  But  it  was  explicit;  and  he  knew  the 
master  builder  well  enough  now  to  indulge  in 
no  questions.  It  was  simply  a  matter  of  com 
plying,  or  not.  He  complied.  And  a  little  be 
wildered  by  the  note  of  authority  in  Chance's 
voice,  his  narrow  mind  groping  darkly  through 
a  situation  which  had  grown  out  of  his  com 
prehension,  he  hurried  over  to  the  prophet's 
house.  This  was,  it  would  seem,  to  be  an  evening 
of  surprises  for  the  general  overseer  of  the  Beech- 
croft  activities. 

The  house  of  the  prophet  was  not  only  im 
posing,  on  its  broad  terrace,  and  under  its  great 
beeches,  it  was  also,  or  it  always  had  been,  a 
symbol  of  all  that  was  methodical,  orderly, 
serene.  There  was  never  any  noise  in  or  about 
Mr.  Stein's  dwelling;  there  was  never  confusion; 
nothing  was  ever  out  of  place.  The  butler, 


176  Comrade  John 

the  coachman,  and  the  five  maids  who  made 
up  that  devout,  silent  household,  were  but  parts 
of  a  well-regulated  little  machine,  whose  object 
was  to  surround  Stein,  the  man,  with  every  com 
fort.  And  the  directing  of  this  machine,  the  con 
stant  regulating  and  adjusting  of  it,  had  been  the 
life-work  of  the  plain,  sad,  gray  little  woman 
known,  when  she  was  known  at  all,  as  Comrade 
Louisa,  the  wife  of  Herman  Stein. 

Hobbema  swung  the  knocker,  and  waited. 
He  swung  it  again,  —  and  still  he  waited.  This 
was  unusual.  Through  the  open  windows  came 
occasional  sounds  of  activity  within.  A  third 
time  he  knocked.  He  walked  slowly  the  length 
of  the  veranda  and  back  again.  Finally,  through 
the  broad  glass  in  the  upper  part  of  the  door,  he 
saw  the  butler  approaching,  but  without  his  usual 
expression  of  utter  woodenness.  Something  not 
unlike  emotion  was  written  on  his  smooth-shaven 
face.  His  hands  were  dusty;  and  his  coat  was 
partly  unbuttoned,  as  if  he  had  been  interrupted 
in  manual  labor,  and  had  hastily  thrown  it  on. 

Hobbema  looked  narrowly  at  him.  "Is  Mr. 
Stein  here,  Joseph?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  he  is?" 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  177 

"  I  can't,  sir.  He  has  been  away  since  morn 
ing." 

There  were  several  packing-cases  in  the  hall, 
and  heaps  of  excelsior  on  the  floor.  Books  were 
scattered  about.  Pictures,  some  crated,  others 
not,  were  leaning  against  the  wall. 

Hobbema  half  turned,  hesitated,  then  peered 
in  again  through  the  doorway.  "What  is  all 
this  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Who  is  going  away,  Joseph  ?  " 

The  butler  looked  out  toward  the  beeches. 
His  hand  gripped  the  door-knob  more  tightly. 
"Mrs.  Stein  is  going  away,  sir." 

Hobbema's  eyes  flashed  with  a  curiosity  so 
eager  that  it  was  fairly  morbid.  "This  is  —  a 
surprise,  Joseph.  I  —  I  should  like  to  see  her, 
if  she— " 

"Very  sorry,  sir,  but  she  has  asked  to  be  ex 
cused  from  seeing  anybody." 

There  was  a  silence,  then  the  overseer  drew  on, 
with  an  effort,  the  cloak  of  solemn  dignity  with 
which  he  habitually  covered  his  mental  naked 
ness,  and  walked  down  to  the  road.  Here  he 
did  not  hesitate.  He  felt  pretty  certain  that  he 
knew  where  to  go  next. 

The  pleasant  cottage  which  was  occupied  by 
Cynthia  and  her  aunt  stood  halfway  down  the 


178  Comrade  John 

lower  valley,  close  by  a  little  brook  which  lingered 
beside  it  as  if  unwilling  to  lose  its  identity  in 
the  larger  stream  just  beyond.  There  were  pines 
here  among  the  beeches,  and  they  were  so  grouped 
on  the  western  side  that  the  evening  shadows 
fell  early  over  the  cottage,  and  deepened  the  color 
of  its  malachite  green  stain,  and  softened  the 
interior  tones  on  its  flat,  simply  ornamented  walls. 
And  so  now,  although  daylight  still  held  in  the 
valley,  twilight  had  entered  the  cottage,  and  had 
brought  with  it  the  mysteries  that  hover  midway 
between  daylight  and  dark.  The  door  and 
the  windows  were  open,  and  the  faint  noises  of 
early  evening  came  floating  in  from  tree  and 
meadow  to  blend  gently  with  the  tinkle  and  gurgle 
of  the  brook  and  with  the  deepening  shadows. 

Cynthia  sat  curled  up  on  the  window-seat, 
gazing  out  and  down,  cheek  resting  on  hand, 
into  a  black  pool  just  below,  where  the  dusky 
reflections  ceaselessly  wavered  and  broke  and 
re-formed  and  wavered  again.  There  was  a 
fascination  almost  hypnotic  in  the  dark,  quivering 
surface  of  the  water.  Her  delicately  outlined 
face  seemed  to  have  grown,  in  that  half  light, 
suddenly  fragile.  Herman  Stein  stood  silent 
in  the  shadow,  looking  down  at  her.  He  was 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  179 

big,  commanding,  yet  gentle.  She  could  feel 
his  steady  eyes  upon  her.  They  frightened  her 
a  little.  And  still,  so  long  as  it  was  impersonal 
this  way,  so  long  as  his  closeness  to  her  seemed 
mental,  even  spiritual,  rather  than  physical, 
there  was  something  almost  restful  in  his  mastery. 

On  the  square-legged  little  table  at  her  elbow 
lay  an  open  copy  of  "Toil  and  Triumph," 
dog-eared  and  pencilled.  Scraps  of  paper 
lay  about,  covered  with  snatches  of  exegesis  in 
Stein's  unformed  hand  —  a  hand  which  he  never 
employed  when  an  amanuensis  or  a  stenographer 
was  available,  and  which  was  the  only  outwardly 
weak  thing  about  him. 

Finally  he  spoke,  slowly  and  with  deep  feeling. 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  Comrade,  what  your 
progress  in  the  spirit  of  our  faith  means  to  me, 
and  to  us  all.  It  has  been  hard  for  me.  I  have 
stood  alone.  I  have  known  what  it  means  to 
fight  for  the  faith.  I  have  often  stumbled  — 
oh,  so  often !  It  has  not  always  been  given  me 
to  see  the  light.  Sometimes  I  have  wished  that 
another  —  a  better,  a  stronger  leader  might  be 
given  to  carry  my  people  forward."  His  deep, 
still  eyes  did  not  waver  from  the  dim  outline  of 
her  cheek  and  from  her  straying,  luminous  hair. 


180  Comrade  John 

"And  now  you  have  come  like  a  shining  light 
into  our  lives.  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  in  a 
personal  way,  Comrade.  It  is  not  I,  the  poor- 
spirited  man,  speaking  to  you,  the  girl  who  is 
so  full  of  youth  and  charm  and  feeling.  No  — 
it  is  not  like  that.  It  is  something  higher  and 
better  than  you  or  I  which  moves  me  to  say  this 
—  something  so  much  higher  and  better  that  we 
can  only  serve  it,  and  give  our  lives  to  it,  and 
perhaps,  some  day  —  who  knows  —  die  for  it. 
That  — "he  paused;  there  was  suppressed  emo 
tion  in  his  voice  —  "that  would  be  wonderful, 
Comrade." 

He  saw  that  she  was  listening. 

"What  we  have  needed  —  now  —  when  we 
have  come  almost  within  sight  of  our  triumph  — 
is  the  inspired  leader  —  the  leader  with  a  spark 
from  the  flame  of  Heaven  in  her  eyes  —  what  I 
have  hoped  for,  prayed  for,  is  the  Joan  of  Arc 
who  could  lead  us  over  the  line  that  separates 
toil  from  triumph.  And  that  —  that  inspired, 
that  almost  divine  one,  must  be  a  woman.  I 
can  lead  no  farther.  No  man  can  lead  us  far 
ther." 

She  looked  up  in  quick  protest.  She  was  con 
scious  of  the  uprush  of  a  great,  a  splendid  pur- 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  181 

pose  within  herself,  of  a  possession  which  seemed 
to  exalt  her  above  the  weaknesses  and  desires 
of  humankind.  Her  eyes  were  shining  as  they 
had  shone  when  first  they  saw  the  splendid  picture 
in  the  upper  valley;  but  suddenly,  when  they 
met  his,  they  fell  away,  and  her  cheek  again 
rested  on  her  hand,  and  again  she  looked  into  the 
dusky  pool. 

"Oh,  Comrade,"  he  continued,  "you  can  never 
understand  what  it  would  have  meant  to  us  if 
we  could  have  had  you  ten  years  ago  —  could 
have  had  you  as  you  are  to-day,  young,  beautiful, 
full  of  the  glamour  of  spring.  If  —  if  my  wife 
could  have  been  like  you !  If  somebody  had 
supported  me  in  my  work  —  if  somebody  had 
believed  in  it  —  if  somebody  had  cared  !  But 
that — "  he  seemed  to  be  steadying  himself  — 
"even  that  is  over  now.  She  never  cared;  and 
now  she  is  leaving  me.  Once  more  I  stand  alone. 
But  I  am  learning.  It  has  taught  me  that  human 
alliances  are  feeble.  I  will  not  be  weak  again 
—  I  will  not  be  a  man,  with  a  man's  desires. 
I  will  be  a  prophet.  I  will  live  only  for  the  tri 
umph  of  our  faith.  When  that  is  achieved,  I 
will  die.  And  it  is  you,  Comrade,  who  have  in 
spired  me,  lifted  me,  who  have  shown  me  that 


1 82  Comrade  John 

the  true  way  is  not  the  poor,  human  way,  but 
that  it  is  the  divine  way.  What  is  this  world 
that  it  should  claim  our  bodies?  What  are  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  this  world  that  they  should 
sway  us  from  the  work  we  have  to  do?"  The 
emotion  that  was  stirring  within  him  suddenly 
broke  through  the  restraint  he  had  put  upon  it. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  you.  It  is  you  who  shine 
out  of  my  temple.  It  was  you  —  the  splendid 
woman  —  who  dominated  me,  who  guided  my 
hand,  when  I  built  it  —  when  I  built  you  into 
it !"  He  did  not  see  the  odd,  startled  expression 
that  flitted  across  her  face  at  this. 

He  looked  at  her  hair,  at  the  soft  outline  of  her 
cheek,  turned  halfway  from  him,  at  her  slender 
hand,  at  her  young  body.  He  could  not  take 
his  eyes  from  her.  The  earthly  man  his  tongue 
had  just  renounced  was  surging  within  him. 
He  had  made  her  listen.  She  was  almost  his. 
His  hands  were  tingling  to  grip  hers  and  hold 
them.  He  wavered  and  took  a  half  step  forward. 
And  then,  the  other  man  within  him,  the  cooler 
man,  still  the  stronger,  took  the  reins.  He  stood 
motionless,  his  hands  clenched,  his  shadowy  face 
hard  and  expressionless.  The  great  mind  was 
revolving  slowly,  oh,  so  slowly !  —  and  settling 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  183 

normally  on  its  axis.  A  false  step  now  would 
spell  disaster.  And  he  knew,  his  colder  mind 
knew,  that  the  man  could  never  accomplish  his 
new  purpose,  that  only  the  prophet  could  win 
her. 

Slowly,  master  of  himself  now,  he  drew  up  a 
chair,  and  sat  beside  her. 

"You  are  tired,  Comrade,"  he  said  gently. 
"I  have  tired  you.  It  means  so  much  to  me. 
After  all,  our  course  is  not  difficult  to  plan  now. 
With  you  by  me,  I  can  see  the  light.  We  will 
stand  together  for  the  faith.  Side  by  side,  we 
will  renounce  the  world,  and  carry  the  banner 
onward.  We  will  travel  far,  and  spread  the 
truth  in  every  corner  of  the  land,  in  every  land. 
We  will  live,  together,  for  the  best  there  is  in  us, 
in  order  that  our  lives  may  inspire  my  people  — 
our  people."  And  without  the  slightest  pause 
or  change  of  manner,  he  went  on:  "It  will 
perhaps  be  well  to  observe  the  conventions  of  the 
world,  foolish  as  they  sometimes  seem.  It  may 
seem  best,  as  our  work  develops  and  defines  itself, 
that  the  separation  between  my  wife  and  myself 
be  made  legal,  and  that  you  and  I  submit  to  the 
outward  forms  of  marriage.  But  that  hardly 
matters."  He  paused,  now,  and  said,  very 


184  Comrade  John 

quietly : "  The  only  thing  that  matters  is  what  we 
may  be  able  to  do  for  our  fellow-men.  Let 
us  hope  and  pray  that  we  may  lead  them  — 
millions  of  them  —  into  the  peace  and  beauty 
of  soul  that  is  built  on  character.  It  is  a  splendid 
thought." 

And  again,  as  he  looked  at  her,  his  hands 
tingled  and  his  fingers  pressed  into  his  palms. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

Cynthia  started  up,  and  gave  a  nervous  little 
exclamation,  and  shook  back  the  loose  locks  of 
her  hair. 

And  then  a  man  came  a  few  steps  into  the 
room;  and  peering  forward,  they  both  made  out 
the  thin  figure  and  the  narrow  shoulders  of  over 
seer  Hobbema. 

Stein  slowly  rose  and  stood  solidly.  In  the 
dusk  he  looked  the  prophet,  calm  and  self- 
controlled.  Hobbema  could  not  see  the  mo 
mentary  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  said. 

Hobbema  was  not  at  his  ease.  "I  have  just 
had  a  message  from  Comrade  John.  He  asks 
very  urgently  that  you  meet  him,  at  once,  before 
dark,  on  the  steps  of  the  temple.'* 

"Did  he  give  no  reason?"  asked  Stein. 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  185 

"None." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Cynthia  drew  back 
into  the  shadows  beside  the  window.  Hobbema 
took  a  desultory  step  or  two  toward  the  door. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  prophet  then.  He  turned 
and  extended  his  hand.  "  Good  night,  Comrade," 
he  said. 

"Good  night,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice  that 
she  herself  hardly  recognized. 

They  were  gone.  Those  inscrutable  eyes 
were  no  longer  fixed  on  her.  And  combating 
her  memory  of  their  power,  fighting  with  them 
for  the  possession  of  her  thoughts,  was  the  mem 
ory  of  the  man  she  had  thought  she  loved  — 
not  Comrade  John,  she  did  not  understand  him, 
but  the  other,  the  Monsieur  Jean  who  had  made 
her  mind. 

Trembling  a  little,  she  leaned  on  the  sill,  and 
looked  out  again  at  the  pool,  and  watched  the 
foam-flecks  that  now  and  then  set  the  deep  re 
flections  quivering.  There  was  no  one,  now,  to 
tell  her  what  to  do. 

A  solitary  figure  was  coming  deliberately  up  the 
north  promenade.  John  Chance,  sitting  on  the 
top  step  of  the  great  flight  before  the  temple, 


1 86  Comrade  John 

waited  until  the  figure  began  to  ascend  the  slope, 
then  he  moved  down  the  steps  and  waited.  The 
twilight  was  not  far  advanced  here  in  the  open. 
A  moment  more,  and  the  two  men  stood  face  to 
face.  The  prophet  bowed  coldly,  but  Chance 
ignored  his  manner. 

"I  have  asked  you  to  come  up  here  in  person, 
Mr.  Stein,  because  what  I  have  to  say  will  be 
enforced  by  the  spectacle  this  valley  makes  right 
now." 

Stein's  eyes  followed  the  gesture,  and  rested 
on  the  row  of  half-built  structures  on  either  side 
of  the  lake.  These  structures  were  the  shops, 
dormitories,  and  studios  which  Chance  had  begun 
after  the  convention  visitors  had  returned  to 
their  homes.  There  was  no  doubt  that  in  their 
present  condition  they  gravely  impaired  the  beauty 
of  the  valley.  Wooden  skeletons,  partly  hidden 
behind  rough  boards  (many  of  which  came  from 
lots  of  second-hand  lumber  which  Chance  had 
picked  up)  stood  boldly  out,  naked,  angular, 
fringed  with  scaffolding  and  bordered  with  lumber 
piles,  dirt  heaps,  and  mortar  beds.  The  sheet-iron, 
with  which  the  more  nearly  completed  buildings 
were  sheathed,  had  not  yet  been  painted,  and  it 
added  broad  surfaces  of  rust  to  the  picture. 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  187 

"The  conditions  have  changed  since  we  built 
the  temple,"  Chance  continued.  "Nowadays 
visitors,  dozens  of  them  at  a  time,  are  coming  in 
here  to  see  the  miracle  they  have  read  about. 
The  papers  are  watching  us,  too.  We  have  no 
time  to  lose  in  completing  these  buildings,  paint 
ing  them,  and  clearing  away  the  rubbish.  The 
interiors  don't  matter.  But  we  must  patch  up 
the  looks  of  this  valley,  and  do  it  quick.  I'm 
too  much  of  a  showman,  myself,  to  enjoy  it  as 
it  is.  There's  no  triumph  in  that  mess." 

On  that  other  occasion,  when  the  master  builder 
had  coupled  his  character  as  a  showman  with  the 
spirit  of  Beechcroft,  the  prophet  had  let  it  pass 
as  the  mental  vivacity  of  a  young  man.  But  now 
it  irritated  him;  and  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to 
present  the  gravely  inquiring  countenance  which 
Chance  saw. 

"And  now,"  the  younger  man  went  on,  very 
deliberately,  "you  are  wondering  why  I  brought 
you  here  to  tell  you  this.  It  is  because  I  dis 
charged  all  my  men  this  afternoon,  —  all  but 
one,  to  be  exact,  —  and  the  work  has  stopped." 

Stein  gave  him  a  quick  look.  "I  have  no 
doubt  you  had  a  good  reason  for  that  course?" 

"I  felt  that  I  had." 


1 88  Comrade  John 

"And  can't  you  employ  other  men?" 

Chance  shook  his  head.  "No,  for  two  reasons. 
The  plan  of  making  imitation  Beechcrofters  out 
of  hired  workingmen  is  a  failure.  They  can't 
be  handled  that  way.  It  seemed  worth  a  trial, 
but  I  know  now  that  it  won't  work.  It's  better 
to  let  the  buildings  rot  as  they  are  than  to  give 
the  Associated  Press  a  two-column  story  on  the 
strike  of  the  workmen  who  were  making  Herman 
Stein's  visions  to  blossom  like  the  rose  —  with 
drunks,  riots,  and  incidental  shootings  on  the  side." 

The  master  builder  delivered  this  thrust  with 
cool  scorn.  He  was  sick  of  Stein. 

"And   he  other  reason ?" 

"I  kept  one  of  the  men  here  because  I  found 
that  he  knows  my  name  and  my  history,  and  he 
has  the  beginnings  of  an  understanding  that  we 
shouldn't  like  him  to  give  either  to  the  Associated 
Press." 

Stein  was  finding  it  difficult  to  keep  his  temper 
in  the  presence  of  this  self-possessed  young  man 
who  despised  him. 

"What  have  you  to  propose?"  he  asked,  with 
a  new  snap  in  his  voice. 

"That  we  try  to  get  a  little  real  work  out  of  the 
Beechcrofters." 


The  Stake  and  the  Players  189 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?'' 

"That  you  and  I,  Stein,  stop  lying  for  a  few 
weeks.  We  can't  stop  altogether  —  you  will 
still  claim  that  you  conceived  this  picture,  and 
that's  a  lie.  But  we  can  make  your  people  do 
the  rest  of  the  work.  It  won't  hurt  them." 

Chance  cared  no  more  for  the  flush  of  anger 
that  spread  slowly  over  the  heavy  face  than  he 
had  cared  for  the  imposing  dignity  of  the 
moment  before.  And  so,  while  Stein  was  strug 
gling  with  the  slow  temper  that  threatened  to 
master  him,  he  finished  what  he  had  to  say. 

"I  have  no  authority  to  call  out  the  guilds  and 
set  everybody  at  work  to-morrow  morning.  But 
that  is  the  course  I  recommend  to  you."  And 
with  that  he  turned  away,  and  tossed  a  bit  of 
stone  into  the  mist  of  the  cascade.  It  would  not 
be  good  business  for  Stein  to  lose  his  temper  at 
this  stage,  and  Chance  gave  him  a  little  time  in 
which  to  recover  it. 

Stein  walked  a  few  steps  away,  and  stood  by 
the  parapet.  The  evening  was  quiet,  except  for 
the  music  of  the  little  waterfall.  In  the  western 
and  northern  sky  a  warm  red  afterglow  was 
spreading,  and  some  of  its  color  got  into  the  still 
water,  and  added,  as  the  ugly  objects  on  the  banks 


190  Comrade  John 

receded  into  the  dusk,  a  new  charm  to  the  picture 
Chance  had  made.  Above  them,  on  its  eleva 
tion  at  the  top  of  the  wide  stairway,  towered  the 
temple,  which  meant  so  much  to  them  both. 

As  if  by  some  tacit  understanding  they  turned 
and  faced  each  other.  Each  was  squarely  un 
compromising  —  Chance  firm,  Stein  hard.  And 
each  was  cool  now.  Their  eyes  met,  and  an 
odd  little  flash  passed  between  them.  Yes, 
Stein  was  big.  He  would  be  a  hard  man  to 
fight  —  and  defeat.  There  was  something  ad 
mirable,  after  all,  in  the  way  he  had  put  down 
that  slow,  cold  temper  of  his.  If  it  ever  broke 
away  from  him,  the  spectacle  would  be  worth 
seeing.  Men  do  not  like  to  be  told  that  their 
lives  are  a  lie,  especially  if  the  charge  be  true. 
It  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  a  man  forgets.  Stein 
would  not  forget  it.  But  it  was  the  impassive, 
the  impersonal  prophet  who  now  spoke. 

"I  have  a  little  work  to  do  now  at  the  temple,'' 
he  said,  speaking  slowly  and  very  distinctly, 
"before  I  go  down.  But  I  will  consider  your 
suggestion,  and  communicate  with  you  a  little 
later.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  your  plan 
is  the  best  —  perhaps  the  only  one  to  follow." 

With  a  slight  bow  he  ascended  the  steps. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WIRES  AND  THE  MARIONETTE 

THE  prophet's  road  from  the  temple  to  his 
house  led  him  past  Hobbema's,  and  the  light 
from  its  windows  arrested  his  attention  and  put 
a  term  to  his  revery.  It  was  another  manifesta 
tion  of  the  immense  reserves  of  Stein's  power, 
that  after  two  such  scenes  as  he  had  just  come 
through,  the  exaltation  of  one  and  the  violent 
revulsion  of  the  other,  and  with  his  dismantled 
home  before  him,  he  was  able  to  take  up  and 
dispose  of  a  practical  detail  suggested  by  these 
lighted  windows. 

If  a  strong  premonition  was  on  him  that  his 
master  builder  was  dangerous,  this  steady-eyed 
young  man  whose  tongue  was  so  trenchant  and 
whose  mind  so  incorrigibly  honest,  whatever  his 
deeds  might  be,  —  he  was  entirely  without  mis 
givings  of  this  sort  in  the  case  of  his  overseer. 
Any  notion  that  Hobbema  would  one  day  dis 
place  him  and  reign  in  his  stead  at  the  head  of 
191 


192  Comrade  John 

the  new  religion,  he  would  have  dismissed  as 
nonsense. 

"I  find  that  the  builders  are  in  trouble,"  the 
prophet  said,  as  he  seated  himself  ponderously 
in  a  massive  slab-sided  chair  in  Hobbema's 
library.  "I  have  tried  leaving  them  to  them 
selves  for  this  latter  and  less  important  part  of 
the  work,  and  I  find  them  unequal  to  it.  Com 
rade  John  confessed  as  much  to  me  this  evening." 

" Comrade  John?"  The  overseer  affected  not 
to  know  whom  he  meant. 

"  Comrade  John,  the  master  builder,"  said 
Stein,  with  no  trace  of  impatience.  "  You  brought 
me  a  message  from  him  this  evening." 

Hobbema  had  never  been  able  to  discover  who 
the  master  builder  really  was,  though  he  had 
tried  scores  of  times  in  just  such  little  ways  as 
this  to  trip  him  or  the  prophet  into  revealing  it. 
Surnames  were  not  as  a  rule  made  a  matter  of 
mystery  at  Beechcroft,  though  they  had  no  place 
in  the  prescribed  form  of  address.  Still  was  it 
explicitly  stated  in  what  Chance  had  irreverently 
referred  to  as  the  " ground  rules"  that  when  a 
disciple  sought  the  shelter  of  Beechcroft  he  might 
abandon,  if  he  liked,  the  burden  of  his  former 
identity  and  the  label  which  attached  him  to  it. 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  193 

A  respectable  minority  of  others  besides  Comrade 
John  had  taken  this  course,  but  none  of  these 
worried  Hobbema.  His  fine  nose  had  caught 
a  whiff  of  the  one  real  mystery  among  them 
all  and  he  was  always  sniffing  at  it. 

"These  new  buildings,"  Stein  went  on,  "are 
so  far  a  failure.  They  are  ugly,  and  I  will  allow 
no  ugly  things  at  Beechcroft.  But  from  now 
on  I  shall  make  the  completion  of  those  buildings 
my  first  duty.  We  will  turn  this  failure  into  a 
source  of  fresh  inspiration." 

He  made  an  involuntary  pause  there.  He 
would  have  liked,  he  had  meant,  to  carry  the 
jargon  a  little  further,  but  a  sudden  weariness 
of  it  stopped  him.  The  fact  that  the  overseer 
suspected  a  good  deal,  and  perhaps  knew  a  little, 
was  partly  accountable  for  it,  and  Chance's 
suggestion  that  they  stop  lying  for  a  while,  still 
more.  The  quality  of  his  voice  changed,  and  he 
spoke  brusquely.  "I  tell  you  this  because  I  wish 
you  to  carry  a  message  to  the  masters  of  all  the 
guilds  at  once,  to-night.  At  the  regular  hour 
of  assembly  to-morrow,  the  guilds  will  march  to 
the  temple  to  hear  my  words  in  the  matter." 

But  by  the  next  morning  Stein  was  himself 
again.  The  jargon,  so  lifeless  when  he  had  tried 


194  Comrade  John 

to  talk  it  to  Hobbema,  had  its  old-time  sonority 
back.  His  harangue  to  the  disciples  was  in  a 
fine  vein  of  buoyant  earnestness.  He  admitted, 
without  mincing  words,  that  the  new  buildings 
were  a  failure.  His  own  guiding  hand  had  been 
removed  from  the  work.  The  builders,  misled 
by  pride  in  the  triumphant  achievement  of  the 
first  stage  of  the  work,  had  gone  on  vainglori- 
ously  in  their  own  strength,  without  the  aid  of  the 
true  Beechcroft  spirit.  But  the  failure  should  be 
after  all  only  a  fall  forward.  To-day,  with  their 
prophet  at  their  head,  the  triumph  band  was  to 
assault  the  last  fortress  of  Ugliness  which  reared 
its  head  amongst  them.  There  could  be  no 
defeat.  Beechcroft  should  be  the  oasis  of  the 
world,  the  flowering  of  its  perfect  beauty. 

He  gave  out  a  hymn,  upon  this  conclusion, 
"Onward,  Toiling  Soldiers,"  and  while  the  organ 
was  pealing  out  the  opening  strains  he  disap 
peared  through  the  heavy  curtains  which  closed 
the  passage  into  the  robing-room. 

Near  the  end  of  the  last  stanza  the  curtains 
again  parted,  and  the  figure  of  the  prophet  again 
appeared,  clad  —  the  first  time  many  had  seen 
him  so  —  in  the  simple  working  tunic  of  a  disciple, 
and  bearing  in  his  hand  a  small  silver  trowel. 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  195 

He  pronounced  the  benediction,  "Toil  without 
weariness  and  achieve  Beauty" — an  injunction 
which  must,  for  most  of  them,  have  taken  on  an 
ironical  significance  before  night  —  and  then,  pre 
ceded  by  the  overseer  with  his  staff  of  office,  he 
led  the  hosts  of  Beechcroft  out  to  something  they 
had  never  bargained  for,  —  to  a  real  job.  For  there 
was  much  weariness  and  precious  little  achievement 
of  beauty  that  long  summer  day  at  Beechcroft. 

But  the  important  things  that  happened  that 
day,  and  there  were  many,  were  not  affected  one 
way  or  the  other  by  the  attack  of  the  triumph 
band  upon  the  fortress  of  ugliness  in  the  valley. 
A  little  scene  between  Hobbema  and  Hicks, 
for  instance,  which  lasted  not  more  than  five 
minutes,  counted  for  far  more. 

Hobbema,  after  leading  the  procession  from 
the  temple  to  the  scene  of  the  new  work,  had 
modestly  sought  the  background,  and  here, 
in  the  same  pursuit,  apparently,  he  found  the 
carpenter.  The  sight  of  the  man  always  inflamed 
his  anger,  ever  since  the  day  of  the  saw-filing 
episode ;  now,  fortified  by  Comrade  John's 
assurance  that  all  the  workmen  had  been  dis 
charged,  he  bustled  up  to  this  one,  intent  on 
making  short  work  of  him. 


196  Comrade  John 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  demanded. 
"You  have  no  right  to  that  uniform  nor  to  be 
loafing  about  Beechcroft.  You  were  discharged 
last  night." 

"Go  slow,  there,  little  mister,"  said  Hicks. 
"I  worn't  laid  off  last  night.  Not  me.  'Oo 
told  you  that  story?" 

"All  the  workmen  were  discharged  last  night," 
said  Hobbema,  with  a  sarcastic  staccato,  better 
adapted  to  a  class  room  than  to  his  present 
auditor.  "I  presume  you  are  one  of  them." 

"You  presoom  wrong,  then,"  blustered  the 
other.  "I'm  J.  Hicks.  The  boss  won't  turn 
me  off,  yet  awhile." 

"Whom  do  you  mean  by  'the  boss'?"  asked 
the  overseer,  sticking  to  his  former  manner. 
"Evidently  you  do  not  mean  me  or  Mr.  Stein." 

"No,  I  don't  mean  you  or  Mr.  Stein.  I  mean 
the  real  boss,  the  man  who  built  those  buildings 
up  there."  The  carpenter  was  vaguely  aware 
that  he  ought  to  stop  here,  but  he  had  got  fairly 
started  talking  and  he  could  not  stop  himself. 
"I  mean  Mr.  John  Chance,  that's  'oo  I  mean. 
And  'e  knows  'oo  I  mean,  too.  I  worked  for 
'im  at  Atlanta  and  he  forgot  me.  But  I  didn't 
forget  'im." 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  197 

Hobbema  drew  a  step  nearer  and  lowered  his 
voice.  "You  know  him?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 
"You  say  his  name  is  Chance?  Are  you  sure? 
Do  you  know  what  his  business  is?" 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  worked  for  him  at  Atlanta  ?  " 
The  carpenter's  voice  betrayed  a  tolerant  con 
tempt  for  the  overseer's  ignorance.  "'E's  the 
man  that  builds  things  like  this  at  the  exposi 
tions."  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  upper 
valley,  the  temple,  the  lake,  the  whole  Beech- 
croft  miracle.  "But  he's  done  better  than  this. 
That  Looking- Glass  Park  at  Pittsburg  was  three 
times  as  big.  'Do  I  know  him!'" 

Hobbema's  tact,  which  was  the  thimble-rigging 
sort,  was  blown  clean  out  of  adjustment  by  the 
violence  of  this  revelation.  He  stared  blankly 
at  the  carpenter  a  moment,  and  then  gasped 
out:  — 

"And  did  Stein  hire  him  to  come  here?  Was 
he  paid  to  do  it?" 

This  question  took  Hicks  quite  beyond  the 
tether  of  his  knowledge,  and  the  jerk  reminded 
him  that  he  was  giving  away  something  that  was 
valuable. 

"I  don't  have  to  answer  your  questions  — 
I  don't  want  none  of  your  lip.  I've  got  no  time 


198  Comrade  John 

for  you.  My  business  is  with  the  boss.  If 
you  want  anything,  you  can  go  to  him." 

It  took  the  overseer  an  hour  or  two  to  get  his 
intricate  but  cheaply  made  mental  machinery  to 
going  again.  When  he  did,  when  he  fully  com 
prehended  the  fact  which  explained  the  Beech- 
croft  miracle  in  its  entirety,  the  fact  which  pro 
claimed  Stein  a  fraud  and  a  traitor  to  the  religion 
of  which  he  masqueraded  as  the  prophet,  he 
was  almost  beside  himself  with  excitement. 

At  last,  after  one  and  another  of  the  fine-spun 
webs  of  intrigue  he  had  been  weaving  all  these 
years  had  fallen  to  pieces,  suddenly,  almost  by 
clear  luck,  he  found  he  had  the  prophet's  feet 
in  a  net  that  would  hold.  All  Stein's  strength 
and  subtlety  would  not  avail  him  to  escape  from 
it.  And  he  had  found  it  in  time;  he  was  still 
Stein's  heir.  The  mantle  would  fall  on  his 
shoulders,  and  on  no  others.  All  he  would  have 
to  do  now  with  the  facts  in  his  hands,  after  he 
had  got  Hicks  to  put  them  in  writing,  would  be 
to  give  them  to  the  world,  and  he  would  find  him 
self  seated  on  the  throne  that  had  been  desecrated 
by  an  impostor. 

And  then  the  thought  of  Comrade  Ellen  oc 
curred  to  him.  What  was  that  line  of  poetry 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  199 

about  hell  having  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned  ? 
Well,  she  had  been  scorned.  Now  he  came  to 
think  of  it,  she  must  have  regarded  the  rise  of 
the  new  priestess  with  feelings  as  poignant  as 
his  own.  And  when  she  should  hear  an  intima 
tion  of  what  was  happening  in  the  prophet's  own 
home,  when  she  had  had  repeated  to  her  a  phrase 
or  two  out  of  the  scene  Hobbema  had  overheard 
at  Cynthia's,  when  finally  she  should  learn  what 
sort  of  man  it  was  for  whom  she  had  sacrificed 
herself,  when  the  weapon  that  would  demolish 
Stein  at  a  single  blow  should  be  unobtrusively 
slipped  into  her  hand  — 

Yes,  that  was  clearly  the  way  to  do  it.  She 
would  have  no  qualmish  fears.  She  would  need 
no  prompting,  no  urging  on.  Indeed,  it  was 
likely  that  she  would  take  matters  so  completely 
into  her  own  hands  that  the  overseer  would  be 
able  to  keep  an  attitude  of  mild  remonstrance 
against  her  doing  anything.  That  would  make 
his  subsequent  part  in  the  affair  much  more 
dignified.  He  could  be  properly  scandalized, 
at  first  over  the  charge  itself,  and  later  over  the 
proven  truth  of  it,  perfectly  free  from  the  faintest 
suspicion  of  self-interest.  And  then,  if  the  dis 
covery  should  turn  out  to  be  nothing  but  a  mare's 


2oo  Comrade  John 

nest  after  all,  he  would  be  left  just  where  he  was 
to-day.  He  had  not  seen  Comrade  Ellen  since 
the  night  of  his  encounter  with  Chance  at  her 
house,  and  he  slyly  assured  himself  that  this  fact 
would  make  his  position  with  her  all  the  stronger. 
He  was  a  great  man  for  finesse,  was  Hobbema. 

He  found  her  carrying  a  jug  of  water  to  a  tired 
little  group  of  toilers,  and  spoke  to  her  with  an 
air  which  he  meant  to  make  at  once  bland 
and  authoritative.  He  could  not  come  very  near 
it  though,  could  not  even  keep  his  lips  from 
trembling. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you  which 
is  for  your  ears  alone.  Will  you  come  with 
me?" 

She  assented  in  a  matter-of-fact,  incurious  way, 
and  followed  him;  she  asked  no  questions,  and 
seemed  perfectly  indifferent  as  to  what  the  sub 
ject  of  his  momentous  communication  was  to  be. 
But  when  he  had  led  her  along  a  disused  trail 
which  mounted  the  steep  side  of  the  upper  valley, 
out  to  the  very  outskirts  of  Beechcroft  civiliza 
tion,  she  stopped  him. 

"This  must  be  far  enough.  You  will  be  safe 
enough  in  saying  anything  you  can  want  to  say 
here." 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  201 

"It  was  for  you  — "  he  began,  but  she  cut 
him  short. 

"There  is  nothing  you  can  say  that  I  had  not 
as  lief  you  said  before  all  the  congregation.  I 
have  no  secrets  left.  You,  I  think,  have  a  good 
many.  But  this  is  a  safe  place  to  tell  them,  if 
any  is." 

A  natural  opening  in  the  timber  below  the  trail 
enabled  them  to  look  across  to  the  abandoned 
construction  camp,  the  shack,  and  the  barracks 
where  the  real  workers  of  the  Beechcroft  miracle 
had  lived.  She  seemed  utterly  negligent  of  him 
and  of  his  errand,  as  she  stood  gazing  down  upon 
the  plain,  work-a-day  buildings  below. 

"It  is  about  the  man  who  lived  there,"  he  said, 
following  her  look,  "that  I  wished  to  speak  to 
you.  You  have  shown  your  interest  in  him.  I 
find  that  he  has  no  right  to  be  here  at  Beechcroft ; 
that  he  is  not  a  disciple  at  all." 

He  looked  for  some  expression  of  surprise 
here,  but  saw  nothing  in  her  face  that  betrayed 
a  spark  of  it ;  his  own  manner  grew  a  little  more 
impressive  and  pedagogic  in  consequence.  "He 
is  an  architect,  the  builder  of  those  vile  amuse 
ment  places  which  have  been  the  disgrace  of  our 
great  expositions.  And  the  builder  of  a  place 


2O2  Comrade  John 

called  Looking- Glass  Park  at  Pittsburg  has  been 
permitted  to  desecrate  Beechcroft!" 

She  was  looking  at  him  now,  frankly  inter 
ested,  but  still  without  surprise.  Her  reply, 
on  the  other  hand,  fairly  staggered  him. 

"I  knew  he  was  some  one  like  that.  I  knew 
he  was  here  as  a  matter  of  business." 

"You  knew!" 

"Oh,  not  as  you  mean,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"I  never  tricked  any  one  into  telling  me  his  name. 
But  I  knew  he  was  a  real  man,  not  the  kind  who 
come  here  for  any  other  reason.  I  asked  him 
why  he  was  here  the  night  you  brought  him  to 
see  me,  but  he  wouldn't  tell  me.  He  couldn't, 
I  suppose." 

Hobbema  found  himself  flushing  a  dull  red. 
"I  will  not  discuss  that  slur  upon  our  brother 
disciples,"  he  said.  "It  is  beneath  discussion. 
But  what  I  wish  to  point  out  is  that,  by  hiring 
him  to  come  here  to  do  this  work  for  gain, 
Mr.  Stein  has  shown  himself  a  traitor  to  our  prin 
ciples.  Do  you  understand  ?  Stein  —  Stein  is  a 
fraud!" 

Remote  as  they  were  from  all  hearing,  the  over 
seer  trembled,  stammered  a  little  as  he  uttered 
those  portentous  words.  But  on  the  girl  they 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  203 

produced  no  more  effect  than  the  most  obvious, 
casual  comment  would  have  done. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  fraud,"  she  assented  listlessly. 
"That  is  not  all  he  is;  he  is  many  things,  some 
bad,  some  good.  He  is  a  fraud,  sometimes, 
when  it  seems  necessary  to  his  purposes." 

"But,"  cried  the  scandalized  overseer,  "he 
claims  the  credit,  the  credit  and  the  high  honor, 
of  being  the  founder  and  the  prophet  of  this  great 
religion.  Is  he  to  go  on —  " 

He  would  have  gone  on,  for  there  was  much 
on  his  glib  tongue  to  say,  but  she  was  looking 
at  him  in  a  thoughtful,  impersonal  sort  of  way, 
that  somehow  made  it  impossible,  that  reduced 
him  to  an  uneasy  silence.  The  scene  was  not 
going  just  as  he  had  planned  it. 

"I  have  been  wondering,"  she  said  at  last, 
"why  you  brought  me  here  to  tell  me  this;  what 
purpose  of  yours  was  served  by  telling  me  of 
Comrade  John,  and  why  you  thought  it  necessary 
to  tell  me  that  our  prophet  is  a  fraud." 

She  paused  here,  as  again  after  a  sentence  or 
two,  but  these  silences  were  broken  by  no  speech 
from  him.  "Did  you  think  that  I  would  ex 
pose  him?  That  perhaps  I  would  add  to  this 
that  you  have  told  me,  something  more,  some- 


204  Comrade  John 

thing  that  would  make  his  ruin  complete  ?  Well, 
I  will  not.  If  you  want  his  place,  you  must  pull 
him  from  it  yourself." 

This  time  the  silence  was  longer.  "  Perhaps," 
she  then  said  slowly,  "  perhaps  you  cannot  do 
that.  Perhaps  you  are  afraid  that  you  would 
merely  expose  yourself  with  him." 

At  that  he  burst  into  speech ;  he  was  breathless 
with  anger.  "  Don't  go  too  far,"  he  gasped. 
"I  warn  you,  do  not  presume  too  far  upon  my 
kindness  to  you.  What  you  say  is  false  as  well 
as  malicious.  I  can  prove  that  I  knew  nothing 
of  the  matter." 

"You  mean  that  others  would  find  it  hard  to 
prove  that  you  did.  I  suppose  so.  At  any  rate, 
you  preferred  to  leave  the  burden  of  making  the 
charge  to  me,  and  to  keep  yourself  free  to  dis 
credit  me  if  I  failed.  And,  as  I  said,  I  will  not 
do  it." 

He  was  not  yet  self-possessed,  but  he  had  his 
tongue  and  his  lips  under  control  again,  and  he 
managed  to  summon  an  ugly  smile.  "It  is 
plain  why  you  will  not,"  he  said.  "You  think  that 
some  day  he  will  come  back  to  you;  that  if  you 
wait  and  watch  your  opportunity  you  can  win 
his  favor  back  again.  Well,  I  assure  you  that 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  205 

you  cannot.  He  has  your  successor  already 
chosen." 

"Why  do  you  say  such  things?  Don't  you 
know  that  nothing  you  say  can  hurt  me?  You 
can't  think  that  I  don't  take  you  for  granted,  that 
I  don't  know  that  you  are  a  coward  and  a  liar. 
I  know  whom  you  speak  of.  But  she  is  safe; 
she  has  a  friend  here  who  will  not  let  her  come 
to  harm." 

He  was  shaking  a  long  forefinger  in  her  face 
before  she  had  done  speaking,  and  his  voice, 
when  he  found  it,  squeaked  with  rage. 

"But  she  will  be  more  to  Stein  than  you  ever 
were.  Listen;  listen  to  me.  He  means  to 
divorce  his  wife.  I  found  her  packing  to  go 
away  when  I  went  to  his  house  last  night.  And 
he  means  to  marry  this  precious  new  priestess 
of  his.  I  heard  him  tell  her  so,  myself.  That's 
all  your  chance  is  worth.  And  you  have  thrown 
away  what  I  would  have  offered  you.  You're 
too  late  for  that  now." 

"That  is  one  insult  the  less,"  she  said  quietly. 
Except  that  she  looked  rather  gray,  even  out  here 
in  the  frank  sunshine,  one  would  have  thought 
her  perfectly  composed.  "Won't  you  please  go 
away  now?  There  can't  be  anything  more  that 


206  Comrade  John 

you  want  to  say.  Or  else  stay  here  and  let  me 
go  alone." 

He  looked  at  her  with  what  was  meant  for 
scorn,  and  then,  with  what  was  meant  for  dignity, 
went  off  down  the  trail. 

Comrade  Ellen  seated  herself  on  a  fallen  log 
and  let  the  grateful  spell  of  utter  silence  and 
emptiness  fold  around  her.  It  was  plain,  now 
that  she  had  none  to  spy  upon  her,  that  the  nerve 
less  apathy  with  which  she  had  listened  to  the 
overseer's  revelations,  had  been  real,  not  as 
sumed.  She  sat  there  with  no  play  of  emotion 
whatever  across  her  face,  with  no  sign  of  life  or 
energy  in  any  line  of  her  body.  The  fire  had 
indeed  passed  over  her,  and  had  left  not  gold, 
but  ashes.  If  there  were  left  at  the  core  of  her 
a  coal  still  glowing,  her  only  wish  was  that  nothing 
might  ever  come  into  her  life  again  that  would 
blow  it  into  flame. 

And  yet,  the  reviving  breath  was  blowing  on  it 
even  as  she  sat  there.  The  thought  of  Cynthia 
and  of  the  trap  the  prophet  had  set  for  her  feet 
kept  coming  to  her  mind  again  and  again  and 
from  a  dozen  different  angles.  The  girl  had  been 
much  under  her  eye  as  well  as  in  her  thoughts 
ever  since  her  dramatic  arrival  the  day  of  the 


Wires  and  the  Marionette  207 

miracle.  Comrade  Ellen,  with  her  listless  eyes, 
observed  the  everyday  life  of  Beechcroft  with  more 
precision  and  detail,  perhaps,  than  any  other 
person  in  the  colony.  She  had  noticed  how  often, 
during  those  first  days,  she  had  seen  Cynthia 
in  John  Chance's  company,  —  she  was  glad 
to  have  that  good,  sane-sounding  name  to  call 
him  by,  —  and  it  was  under  the  impression 
created  in  those  days  that  she  had  assured  Hob- 
bema  that  the  girl  was  in  no  danger  from  Stein. 

But  now  as  she  sat  thinking  about  them  with 
an  interest  which  in  spite  of  herself  was  kindling 
into  eagerness,  she  remembered  that  she  had  not 
only  failed  to  see  them  together  once  in  the  whole 
of  the  past  fortnight,  but  that  she  had,  at  least 
once  or  twice,  seen  them  obviously  avoiding  each 
other. 

And  at  that,  the  idea  that  the  girl  might  not, 
after  all,  be  safe  from  the  very  fate  that  had  over 
taken  her,  surged  up  in  her  like  a  wave  of  giddy 
nausea,  and  left  her  with  cold  limbs  and  a  clammy 
forehead. 

Unless  she  herself  interposed !  She  resisted 
that  idea  fiercely,  at  first.  She,  Ellen,  was  dead ; 
there  was  no  more  duty  upon  her  to  try  to  thwart 
Stein's  base  desires  than  if  she  had  been  a  veritable 


208  Comrade  John 

ghost.  And  yet  the  breath  kept  blowing  gently 
but  stronger  on  the  coal  that  till  to-day  she  had 
thought  dead,  and  her  eyes  grew  light  and  eager 
again;  and  when  at  last  she  retraced  the  trail 
to  Beechcroft,  her  journey  ended  at  Cynthia's 
doorstep. 


CHAPTER   IX 

GOD   AND   MAMMON 

BY  half-past  eight  that  same  evening  the  Hicks- 
Hobbema  intrigue  had  ceased  to  exist.  The 
total  net  result  of  it  was  the  sending  of  Ellen  to 
Cynthia's  doorstep.  So  far  as  the  two  principals 
were  concerned,  it  was  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

Hobbema's  excitement  over  what  the  carpenter 
told  him  of  John  Chance's  identity  and  former 
career  had  inflated  Hicks  to  a  most  unwieldy 
and  dangerous  extent.  He  swelled  visibly  under 
Bill  Hemenway's  eye  all  day,  talked  bigger  and 
louder  and  more  recklessly  every  hour,  until  it 
became  evident,  both  to  Bill  and  his  chief,  that 
he  must  burst  before  night. 

The  crisis  came  just  as  the  Beechcroft  "ange- 
lus"  which  summoned  the  faithful  to  evening 
service  was  beginning  to  ring.  Hicks  took  this 
occasion  to  threaten  to  "blow  the  whole  thing 
up,"  attempted  to  hit  Bill  on  the  nose,  and  had  to 
be  knocked  down  and  carried  away  into  one  of 
p  209 


2io  Comrade  John 

the  unfinished  buildings  while  the  procession  of 
the  guilds  went  by  to  service.  When  the  pro 
cession  had  got  safely  inside  the  temple,  Chance 
sent  the  mutineer  under  guard,  up  to  the  model 
room  in  the  old  shack  behind  the  temple  to  cool 
off  and  get  into  a  fit  state  to  be  talked  to. 

When  Chance  went  up  to  him,  a  little  before 
eight,  the  whole  difficulty  proved  ridiculously 
easy  to  settle.  Ten  minutes'  clever  cross-exami 
nation  elicited  the  fact  that  Hicks  had  already 
told  all  he  knew  to  Hobbema.  When  he  tried 
to  bluster  and  wanted  to  know  "what  his 
information  was  worth,"  Chance  laughed  at 
him. 

"The  reason  you  ask  that  is  because  you  don't 
know  yourself,"  Chance  told  him.  "You  know 
two  words,  'John  Chance.'  You  don't  know 
who  wants  to  know  them  or  who  wants  them  to  re 
main  unknown.  You  don't  know  who'd  be  willing 
to  pay  for  them  or  how  much  he'd  be  willing  to 
pay.  You've  already  given  them  away  to  Hob 
bema  and  you've  an  idea,  now,  that  you  can  sell 
them  to  Stein,  who  knows  more  about  me  than 
you  ever  will.  You've  been  turning  this  thing 
over  and  over  in  your  head  for  weeks,  and  you 
don't  understand  it  yet.  Turning  you  loose  with 


God  and  Mammon  211 

a  blackmailing  proposition  would  be  like  giving 
a  baby  a  stick  of  dynamite  to  play  with." 

Chance  said  it  all  good-humoredly,  got  him 
to  forget  the  drubbing  of  the  afternoon  by  the 
simple  means  of  a  good  supper  and  a  big  cigar, 
and  then  stated  his  terms.  They  were  plainly 
final,  and  they  were  more  liberal  than  Hicks  had 
secretly  expected.  Hicks  wrote  an  explicit  de 
nial  to  Hobbema  of  all  he  had  told  him  that 
morning.  Chance  dictated  it  and  Hicks  labori 
ously  wrote  it  down  in  lead  pencil.  Then  Chance 
packed  him  off  to  town  on  the  evening  train  under 
escort  of  Jones,  the  purchasing  agent,  whose  in 
structions  were  to  buy  him  a  second-class  ticket 
to  Liverpool  by  to-morrow's  steamer  and  to  give 
him  twenty  pounds  in  sovereigns  just  before  the 
ship  sailed. 

Hicks  went  away  in  the  best  of  humors.  Then 
Chance  enclosed  a  copy  of  the  denial  with  a  note 
of  his  own  to  Hobbema,  stating  that  the  matter  as 
yet  had  not  come  to  Mr.  Stein's  notice,  and  that 
if  the  overseer  were  satisfied  that  Hicks  had  made 
a  mistake,  there  was  no  need  that  it  should.  If 
Hobbema  wanted  to  go  farther  in  the  matter, 
however,  no  doubt  Mr.  Stein  could  satisfy 
him. 


212  Comrade  John 

Chance  understood  the  overseer  pretty  well, 
and  was  sure  that  this  would  hold  him.  Hob- 
bema  would  hardly  have  nerve  enough  to  move 
against  the  prophet  with  the  evidence  right  under 
his  hands,  and  for  him  to  set  about  to  get  it 
in  the  face  of  Stein's  certain  knowledge  of  what 
he  was  about,  was  utterly  out  of  the  question. 
Hobbema,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  cut  out  not 
to  pull  wires,  but  to  dangle  at  the  loose  ends  of 
them. 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  as  he  and  Chance  were 
making  their  way  down  the  valley  after  the  trans 
action  was  complete,  "I  suppose  it's  easy  when 
you  know  how.  I  didn't  think  you  could  stop 
him;  he's  such  a  fool." 

"A  fool's  no  harder  to  handle  than  anybody 
else  if  you  go  at  him  right.  It  was  easier  than 
I  wanted  it  to  be.  I  wanted  something  hard 
to-night ;  something  I  could  get  my  teeth  in." 

"It's  a  funny  sort  of  job,"  said  Bill,  rumina- 
tively.  "I  had  that  feeling  myself  this  afternoon. 
I  wished  Hicks  had  been  a  harder  man  to  lick." 

They  walked  on  down  the  valley  in  silence  for 
a  while  and  then  Chance  spoke  again,  stopping 
in  his  tracks  to  give  emphasis  to  what  he  had  to 
say.  "But  we're  going  to  put  it  through,  Bill. 


God  and  Mammon  213 

That's  the  only  satisfaction  we'll  ever  get  out 
of  this  job.  To  put  it  through  in  spite  of  Hicks 
or  Hobbema  or  Hell  and  the  devil ;  to  get  it  done 
and  wiped  off  the  slate,  and  then  go  back  to 
Forty-second  Street  and  start  something  that's 
on  the  straight,  to  get  the  taste  out  of  our  mouths. 
And  the  harder  we  have  to  work  to  get  it  done  the 
better  I'll  like  it." 

Bill  was  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  extent  of 
this  confidence,  but  he  said,  "I'm  with  you  there," 
and  they  walked  on  again  in  silence.  Nothing 
more  passed  between  them  until  they  had  come 
near  enough  to  Chance's  cottage  to  see  that 
there  was  a  light  in  his  sitting-room.  "  Some 
body's  waiting  in  there  to  see  me:  Hobbema, 
like  enough.  Good  night,  Bill;  and  thank 
you." 

But  his  visitor  was  not  Hobbema,  nor  Stein, 
nor  any  one  else  whom  he  had  the  least  expec 
tation  of  seeing;  it  was  Comrade  Ellen.  He 
had  entered  the  room  in  his  swift,  noiseless 
fashion,  and  had  not  only  recognized  her,  but  had 
noted  the  curious  tenseness  of  her  attitude  as 
she  sat  in  his  big  easy-chair,  an  attitude  strangely 
at  variance  with  her  wonted  languor,  before  she 
had  time  to  rise. 


214  Comrade  John 

She  acknowledged  his  "Good  evening"  with 
a  bow,  stood  looking  at  him  eagerly  a  moment, 
as  if  anxious  to  speak,  but  lacking  the  words 
or  the  voice  to  make  a  beginning;  then,  turn 
ing  away  from  him,  walked  restlessly  to  the 
window. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  to  take  the  edge  off  the 
silence,  "that  you  haven't  been  kept  waiting  for 
me  very  long.  I  am  usually  at  home  at  this 
time,  but  to-night  —  " 

Still  she  said  nothing ;  so  after  a  moment  he 
drew  a  little  nearer.  "I  told  you  once,  a  good 
while  ago,  it  seems,  that  if  ever  I  could  help  you, 
I  would.  I'm  very  glad  if  you've  taken  me  at 
my  word." 

At  that  she  began  speaking,  and  her  voice  had 
a  kind  of  dry  scorn  in  it.  "A  man  came  to  me 
to-day  with  the  knowledge  of  some  facts  which  he 
said  proved  Herman  Stein  a  fraud.  He  thinks, 
he  has  always  thought,  that  I  knew  other  things 
which  proved  him  that  and  worse.  He  wanted 
me  to  expose  him.  I  told  him  that  I  would  not 
do  it;  that  if  he  wished  to  wear  the  prophet's 
mantle  he  must  pull  it  from  his  shoulders  him 
self." 

"He  won't  be  able  to  now,"   said   Chance. 


God  and  Mammon  215 

"At  least  he  won't  dare  run  the  risk  involved  in 
trying." 

"With  my  help  he  could,  with  my  help  or 
with  yours.  And  I  refused."  It  was  strange, 
almost  uncanny,  the  way  her  voice  kept  its  dry, 
lifeless  quality  through  the  next  words  she  uttered. 
"It  was  not  out  of  regard  for  the  prophet  that  I 
refused.  I  would  not  turn  my  hand  —  so 
—  to  save  him  from  death  nor  from  torment. 
And  it  was  not  because  I  hated  —  hated  the 
way  you  hate  a  rat  —  the  man  who  asked  me 
to  do  it.  It  was  because  I  was,  well,  dead,  and 
did  not  want  to  live  again.  I  took  life  in  my 
hands  once  and  it  hurt  me,  and  I  said  I  would 
never  touch  it  again ;  that  I  would  do  no  more  to 
ruin  Herman  Stein  than  I  would  do  to  save  him. 
That  is  why  I  refused.  But  why  do  you  refuse? 
Why  do  you  shield  him?" 

"He  is  my  employer,"  said  Chance,  thought 
fully.  "I  hired  myself  out  to  him  to  do  the  thing 
he  wanted  of  me.  I  knew  then  what  I  was  getting 
in  for,  or  I  might  have  known.  So  I  am  as  much 
of  a  fraud  as  he.  And  the  only  way  I  know  to 
save  a  shred  of  self-respect  is  to  stay  loyal  to 
somebody  at  least,  through  to  the  end.  To  do 
what  I'd  agreed  to  do  and  —  well,  take  the 


216  Comrade  John 

consequences,  pay  the  price,  no  matter  how 
heavy  it  was.  And  it's  going  to  be  heavy; 
heavier  than  you  are  likely  to  guess.  As  for  the 
overseer,  who  has  neither  your  reason  nor  mine, 
nor  any  other  for  shielding  him,  he  will  not  expose 
him,  either,  after  he  gets  the  note  I  shall  send  him 
in  the  morning." 

She  moved  about  the  room  a  little  restlessly 
while  he  was  speaking,  and  did  not  immediately 
take  up  the  thread  of  talk  when  he  dropped  it. 
"I  could  say  all  I  have  come  here  to  tell  you  in 
ten  words.  I  wish  that  were  all  —  I  wish  that 
I  could  get  off  as  cheaply  as  that,  but  I  am  afraid 
that  you  would  not  understand.  Have  you  pa 
tience  to  listen  to  a  long  story,  a  long  and  ugly 
one?" 

"It  won't  tax  my  patience,"  said  Chance. 
"And  I'll  do  my  best  to  understand  and  save 
you  as  much  as  possible.  Tell  me  just  what 
you  think  I  need  know,  to  be  of  real  service  to 
you—" 

He  caught  the  look  that  fleeted  across  her  face. 
"Or  is  it  you  who  mean  to  be  of  help  to  me? 
I've  an  idea  I  need  it." 

He  nodded  toward  an  easy  chair,  but  did  not 
force  her  to  take  it  by  remaining  standing  him- 


God  and  Mammon  217 

self  until  she  did ;  instead,  he  rather  ostentatiously 
made  himself  comfortable,  seating  himself  before 
his  writing  table  and  leaning  his  elbows  on  it. 
He  did  not  move  from  that  position,  did  not  in 
terrupt  with  a  word  or  a  look,  all  the  time  she 
was  telling  the  story,  and  it  took  above  an  hour. 
For  her  part  she  remained  standing  through  it 
all  at  the  window,  her  face  averted  from  him  as 
if  she  had  been  looking  out,  though  the  black  re 
flecting  surface  of  the  diamond-shaped  panes  gave 
her  nothing  but  a  dim,  distorted  vision  of  herself. 

The  story  she  told  him  was  of  Herman  Stein's 
coming  into  her  life,  of  his  existence  in  it,  of  his 
going  out  of  it,  the  three  acts  making  up  a  com 
pleted  tragedy.  She  spared  nothing,  para 
phrased  nothing,  not  a  single  ugly  detail,  but 
poured  it  all  out,  down  to  the  dregs.  She  told 
it  without  excitement,  without  shame,  without 
interest  one  might  almost  have  thought.  She 
carried  it  down  to  the  end,  down  to  the  night 
when  Chance  himself  had  come  with  the  news 
that  her  house  must  be  moved  from  its  isolation 
in  the  upper  valley  to  make  room  for  the  Beech- 
croft  miracle. 

Through  the  whole  story  the  figure  of  the 
prophet  loomed  big,  formidable.  Her  own  part 


218  Comrade  John 

had  been  pitiful,  but,  after  all,  only  a  variant  on 
the  tragedy  of  the  lives  of  many  American  women ; 
an  opulent  soul  whom  life  offered  no  investment 
for  its  riches,  an  easy  prey  for  the  plausible  pre 
tence  that  happiness  can  be  manufactured,  can 
be  attained  by  direct  pursuit,  the  ready  dupe  of 
the  pedlers  of  patented  and  copyrighted  soul- 
balm,  of  the  promoters  of  the  get-rich-quick 
religions  whose  smooth  tongues  are  glib  in  the 
assurance  that  by  a  newly  discovered  process  he 
who  saveth  his  life  may  save  it,  after  all. 

But  the  prophet,  in  her  narrative,  presented 
a  much  more  extraordinary  figure.  A  senti 
mentalist,  an  epicure  in  passions,  all  the  way 
from  the  height  of  religious  ecstasy  to  the  depths 
of  downright  bestial  lust,  pitiless  as  all  such  self- 
pampering  egotists  are  bound  to  be,  so  far  he 
was  by  no  means  a  rare  phenomenon.  But  in 
this,  that  he  joined  to  this  temperament  the  power 
to  gratify  its  demands  to  the  uttermost,  that  he 
possessed  a  powerful  though  cumbrous  mind, 
a  burly  courage,  a  formidable  will,  in  this  com 
bination  of  qualities  he  was  rare  indeed.  His 
self-control  was,  up  to  a  certain  point,  for  an 
occasion,  invincible.  He  made  disciplining  him 
self  a  luxurious  sensation. 


God  and  Mammon  219 

His  semi-occult  qualities  which  Chance  had 
always  been  curious  about  were  all  the  more 
impressive  for  being  kept  in  the  background. 
One  of  the  things  Ellen  told,  —  told  with  a 
short  laugh  which  sent  a  shiver  over  Chance's 
body,  —  was  of  seeing  him  cure  "  miraculously " 
by  hypnosis  a  woman  suffering  from  an  hysteri 
cal  simulation  of  a  tumor. 

"He  never  hypnotized  me,  I  think,"  she  said. 
"Except,  of  course,  that  I  always  knew  he  could 
if  he  should  want  to.  It  came  to  about  the  same 
thing." 

And  the  end  of  the  story  was  that  Comrade 
Ellen,  when  she  had  served  her  turn,  when  she 
had  given  without  stint,  and  he  had  taken  all 
she  had,  was  cast  aside,  empty,  lifeless  as  a  worn- 
out  glove. 

"That's  not  the  end,  though,"  said  Chance 
quietly,  after  a  little  silence  had  fallen  on  her 
story.  "Not  the  end,  either  for  him  or  for 
you." 

"Not  for  him,  no.  But  for  me —  Don't  you 
understand,  after  all  ?  It  isn't  that  I  was  wicked, 
nor  that  I'm  unhappy.  Good  God,  if  only  I 
could  be !  I'm  burnt  out,  I'm  ashes,  I  can't 
care,  I  can't  want  to  care.  That's  worse  than 


22O  Comrade  John 

being  wicked,  and  dying,  and  going  to  hell,  isn't 
it?  To  be  just  nothing  at  all." 

"Up  to  now,"  said  Chance,  —  he  was  draw 
ing  little  meaningless  pictures  on  his  blotting- 
pad, —  "up  to  now  you've  been  telling  me  the 
truth.  But  that  isn't  true.  You  do  care.  You've 
cast  a  spell  over  yourself,  hypnotized  —  if 
you  like  —  yourself  into  the  belief  that  you 
didn't  care,  and  your  real  self  is  struggling  now 
to  rouse  itself.  It's  partly  succeeded.  You 
came  to  me  to-night  because  you  cared,  cared 
for  yourself,  or  for  me,  or  for  some  one  else, 
enough  to  make  you  open  a  door  that  you  thought 
you  had  sealed  shut  forever.  It  was  a  struggle, 
and  you  won  it.  Your  real  self  won  it." 

His  pencil  was  still  busy;  he  did  not  look  up. 
There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then :  — 

"It's  true,"  she  whispered  breathlessly.  "I 
did  care.  I  —  "  The  sentence  ended  in  a 
great  gasp.  She  crossed  the  room  swiftly  and 
stood  before  him,  the  table  between  them,  and 
she  leaning  far  over  it  toward  him.  Her  eyes 
were  blazing  with  excitement. 

"I  did  —  I  cared  this  afternoon,  when  the 
overseer  told  me  what  he  had  spied  and  listened 
to  find  out,  and  what  he  hoped  would  make 


God  and  Mammon  221 

me  jealous  of  my  successor.  I  told  him  she 
would  never  go  the  way  I  had  gone  because  she 
had  a  friend  — " 

The  pencil  dropped  from  his  fingers  and  he 
looked  up,  his  eyes  suddenly  bright;  his  lips 
pressed  together  a  little  more  firmly,  and  he  drew 
a  long,  slow  breath  through  his  nose.  You  would 
have  said,  looking  into  his  face,  that  he  was 
almost  smiling. 

The  rush  of  her  words  carried  her  over  the 
silent  interruption.  " —  a  friend  who  was 
a  real  man,  and  who  would  never  let  her  go  to 
the  hell  I  live  in.  But  when  Hobbema  had  gone 
away,  the  thought  began  to  trouble  me,  and  at 
last  I  went  to  her  house.  She  was  not  there,  and 
I  set  out  to  find  her.  I  found  her  on  the  little 
terrace  where  she  has  been  so  often  lately  — 
You  know  the  terrace  I  mean ;  you've  been  there 
yourself.  I  cared  —  I  cared  enough  to  find 
her.  I  told  her  to  go  to  you  and  not  to  Mr.  Stein. 
And  when  she  said  that  he  was  willing  to  help 
her  and  you  weren't,  I  tried  to  tell  her  my  own 
story.  I  cared  enough  for  that.  And  when  she 
would  not  let  me  go  on  — " 

Chance  frowned.  "  Would  not  let  you?" 
he  interrupted  incredulously. 


222  Comrade  John 

Ellen  made  a  little  gesture  of  impatience.  "  She 
had  heard  Mr.  Stein's  version  of  it.  You  knew 
he  had  provided  himself  with  one.  How  I  was 
a  poor,  weak-minded  thing  with  a  mania  on  a 
subject  inexpressibly  painful  to  him,  and  how, 
instead  of  having  me  locked  up  in  an  asylum, 
he  kept  me  here  and  was  kind  to  me —  You 
must  have  heard  it." 

He  shook  his  head.  "And  that's  believed 
here?"  he  asked.  "And  that's  the  version  of  it 
she  has  heard?" 

She  nodded  assent  to  both  questions.  "She 
was  very  kind  to  me,  but  she  would  not  listen. 
And  then  I  came  straight  here  for  you.  I  have 
been  waiting  here  all  these  hours,  afraid  to  go 
away  for  fear  I  shouldn't  have  the  courage  to 
come  again.  I  —  I  am  crying  —  crying  —  and 
I  had  no  hope  that  I  could  ever  cry." 

She  sank  to  her  knees,  her  arms  out  over  the 
table  and  her  head  buried  in  them,  her  body 
shaken  in  a  paroxysm  of  sobs. 

But  gradually  she  became  quieter,  and  the 
room  grew  silent  except  for  the  tall  clock,  ticking 
away  sixty  to  the  minute.  Five  and  then  another 
five  of  these  crept  away,  and  then  Chance  spoke. 

"Can  you  help  me  a  little  more?    Can  you 


God  and  Mammon  223 

tell  me  what  it  was  that  Hobbema  heard  and  that 
you  came  to-night  to  tell  me?" 

"He  overheard  the  prophet  telling  her  that 
he  meant  to  divorce  his  wife."  She  answered 
the  question  almost  absently,  as  if  it  were  not  in 
the  focus  of  her  mind;  and,  still  without  raising 
her  head,  she  added  in  the  same  tone:  "He 
told  me  that,  once,  and  said  that  I  was  to  be  his 
inspiration,  and  that  he  would  marry  me  for  the 
sake  of  the  religion.  That  is  what  he  has  been 
telling  her." 

"And  you  think  — "  Chance  began.  The 
thing  that  startled  her  out  of  herself  was  nothing 
more  than  the  trumpet-like  timbre  of  his  voice; 
he  spoke  as  quietly  as  before]  " — you  think 
that  there  is  danger  that  she  will  —  do  as  he 
wishes?" 

"She  has  decided;   she  decided  this  evening." 

With  a  brusque  movement  Chance  slid  his 
chair  back  from  the  table  and  got  to  his  feet. 
Ellen  raised  her  head,  but  remained  kneeling 
at  the  other  side  of  it.  She  spoke  quietly,  but 
with  her  mind  for  the  moment  fully  upon  the 
subject,  and  very  impressively. 

"It  is  a  good  many  days  since  she  has  attended 
a  service  at  the  temple.  She  has  spent  most  of 


224  Comrade  John 

her  hours  on  the  terrace  where  I  found  her  this 
afternoon.  But  to-day,  when  she  left  me  there, 
she  went  straight  to  the  temple,  just  before  the 
evening  service.  It  shows  that  he  has  won.  You 
may  be  sure  he  understood.  It  must  have  in 
spired  him  to  see  her  there,  and  he  must  have  made 
his  victory  complete.  She  will  belong  to  him  now, 
soul  and  —  body,  unless  you  can  save  her." 

"No,"  he  said.     "I  promise  you  that." 

Her  head  drooped  again  between  her  arms; 
she  was  not  crying,  and  Chance  thought  that 
perhaps  she  prayed.  He  went  silently  into  an 
inner  room. 

When  he  came  back  five  minutes  later  he  found 
her  in  the  same  position,  but  she  looked  up  im 
mediately  upon  hearing  his  step,  and  smiled  on 
seeing  that  he  had  put  off  his  tunic  and  was 
dressed  in  the  garments  of  the  outer  world.  She 
rose  to  her  feet  and  greeted  him  with  a  touch  of 
color  in  her  cheeks. 

"It  seems  good  to  see  you  dressed  that  way; 
it's  like  getting  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  And  I've 
never  seen  you  so  before." 

But  she  was  incapable  of  sustaining  that  man 
ner  for  more  than  a  moment.  She  clasped  her 
hands  tightly  together  to  keep  them  still. 


God  and  Mammon  225 

"  You  will  save  her !  You  won't  let  her  become 
what  I  am.  You'll  tell  her  that  I  was  a  woman 
once,  too.  You'll  tell  her  my  story?  Just  what 
I  have  told  you?" 

"That  is  not  the  story  I  shall  tell  her,"  he  said. 

A  shadow,  deepening  into  a  pathetic  look  of 
doubt,  came  into  her  face.  "But  it's  true  — 
isn't  it  true  ?  That  I  told  you  to  go  and  help  her  ? 
That  I  really  cared  —  that  I've  been  crying? 
I  haven't  been  just  raving.  You  did  say  I'd 
broken  the  spell  —  didn't  you?" 

"You  have  broken  more  spells  than  one,"  he 
assured  her  very  gravely.  "You  have  saved  her 
and  me,  and  you  have  saved  yourself.  You  never 
need  believe  the  lie  again,  that  you  don't  care." 

She  would  not  let  him  take  her  home,  and  he 
did  not  press  the  matter.  Five  minutes  after 
she  had  gone  he  had  Bill  Hemenway  on  the  tele 
phone. 

"Come  down  here  and  get  a  bunch  of  tele 
grams  that  you  will  find  on  my  desk.  They  must 
go  to-night.  If  the  station  is  locked,  break  in 
and  send  the  messages  off  yourself.  I  shall  be 
out  all  night,  so  you  needn't  report  to  me  till 
morning.  You'll  understand  from  the  messages 
about  what's  going  to  happen." 
Q 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PRICE 

AT  the  first  signs  of  the  activity  of  a  new  day 
about  Cynthia's  house,  Chance  went  to  her  door 
and  knocked.  The  maid,  who  rather  precipi 
tately  answered  the  summons,  showed  surprise 
both  when  she  saw  who  the  untimely  visitor  was 
and  when  she  heard  his  errand. 

"I  wish  to  see  Miss  Cynthia,"  he  said.  He 
had  used  the  word  Comrade  for  the  last  time. 

"But  she  has  not  come  down  yet — " 

"I  suppose  not.  I  will  wait.  But  tell  her, 
please,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  importance." 

He  walked  past  her  into  the  living-room  and 
found  himself  a  chair.  Ten  minutes  later  he 
heard  Cynthia  on  the  stairs  and  met  her  at  the 
foot  of  them. 

It  was  not  alone  the  clothes  he  wore  that  carried 

her  back,  in  the  space  of  a  single  quickly  intaken 

breath,  to  the  Paris  boulevard  on  carnival  day; 

to  the  man  who  had  made  it  his  job  to  save  her 

226 


The  Price  227 

against  her  will  from  a  peril  she  did  not  under 
stand.  She  found  herself  facing  the  same  eyes, 
eager,  confident,  imperious,  that  had  challenged 
hers  that  day.  And  his  speech  made  the  memory 
still  more  vivid.  It  was  as  it  had  been  then, 
abrupt,  full  of  surprise,  and  prefaced  by  no  word 
of  conventional  greeting  or  explanation. 

"I  asked  you  once  —  do  you  remember? 
—  to  give  me  your  coat  and  hat,  and  to  put 
on  what  I  offered  you  in  exchange.  And  you 
believed,  without  knowing  me,  that  I  was  right 
to  ask  it,  and  you  obeyed  me.  I  want  you  to  do 
something  now  in  the  same  spirit.  I  want  you 
to  dress  in  the  clothes  you  wore  the  day  you  came 
here,  travelling  clothes,  and  come  with  me.  But 
get  your  breakfast  first.  I'll  wait  here  for  you." 

Her  decision  was  taken,  her  great  decision, 
in  reaching  which  she  had  looked  to  him  for  help 
and  he  had  failed  her,  and  she  had  been  telling 
herself,  ever  since  last  evening,  that  nothing  he 
could  do  or  say  now  must  be  allowed  to  alter  it 
or  to  raise  a  question  in  her  mind.  But  as  she 
stood  there  looking  down  at  him  from  the  first 
landing  of  the  stairway,  she  could  feel  the  blood 
flooding  her  cheeks  and  her  heart  pumping  it 
more  and  more  madly.  She  could  not  help  that, 


228  Comrade  John 

nor  could  she  phrase  her  answer  into  the  flat 
denial  of  his  request  that  she  had  meant  to 
make. 

"  Yesterday  I  could  have  done  it,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  Yesterday  —  a  good  many  yester 
days —  I  waited  —  I  wanted  you  to  come.  But 
to-day  —  " 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  he  said.  "I  know.  I 
have  watched  outside  your  house  all  night. 
And  I've  the  same  right  to  what  I  ask  to-day  that 
I  had  to  what  I  asked  of  you  in  Paris  *,  to  what  I 
asked  when  I  was  all  unknown  to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  longer,  then, 
nodding  a  brief  assent,  went  back  to  her  room. 
She  pretended  at  first  that  she  had  done  it  in 
order  not  to  be  influenced  too  much  in  deciding 
whether  or  not  to  do  as  he  asked  by  the  sight  of 
him  there.  But  she  threw  that  pretence  over 
board  with  a  faint  smile  when  she  found  that  she 
had  stripped  off  the  Beechcroft  dress  and  was 
hooking  herself  into  the  stiffer  harness  of  civ 
ilization.  The  change  took  some  time  in  spite 
of  the  nervous  haste  with  which  she  attempted  it, 
for  her  hair  rebelled  at  the  long  unaccustomed 
pompadour,  and  the  smart  frock  he  had  specified 
was  not  easy  to  get  into  without  assistance.  It 


The  Price  229 

set  her  wondering  why  he  had  put  her  to  so  much 
trouble,  why  he  had  delayed,  for  so  trivial 
purpose,  the  important  thing  he  had  to  say 
to  her. 

But  before  the  toilet  was  completed,  she  began 
to  have  an  inkling.  Beechcroft,  the  new  re 
ligion  and  her  devotion  to  it,  the  classic  costume, 
tossed  in  a  heap  on  the  still  unmade  bed,  suddenly 
began  to  seem  unreal,  fantastic,  to  the  trim, 
tailored  young  beauty  who  stood  looking  at  her 
so  curiously  from  the  mirror.  That  was  why 
he  had  been  willing  to  wait ;  he  had  foreseen  this 
result,  had  counted  on  it.  The  discovery  moulded 
her  lips  into  a  firmer  line.  It  gave  her  something 
to  resist  with,  something  to  hold  her  steadfast 
to  her  great  decision,  to  counteract  the  effect  of 
the  old,  dear  memories  of  those  hours  with  him 
in  Paris,  and  of  the  newer  picture,  which  she 
tried  not  to  let  her  mind  dwell  on,  of  his  vigil 
outside  her  house  last  night;  last  night  which 
she  had  spent  in  dreaming  and  starting  out  of 
dreams,  crying  a  little  and  wondering  a  great 
deal,  trying  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was 
very  happy. 

Why  he  had  thought  it  necessary  to  watch  — 
against  what  peril,  or  what  the  great  thing  might 


230  Comrade  John 

be  which  he  was  waiting  now  to  tell  her,  were 
questions  whose  answers,  curiously  enough,  she 
did  not  think  of  trying  to  guess. 

They  left  the  cottage  in  silence,  and  walked  on 
so  for  a  little  way,  but  at  the  first  turning  from 
the  main  road,  thinking  she  knew  now  where  he 
meant  to  take  her,  she  stopped. 

"Not  to  the  terrace,"  she  said,  rather  breath 
lessly.  "It's  too  late,  I  tell  you.  I  was  there 
yesterday,  and  —  and  I  said  good-by  to  it. 
I  —  I  am  never  going  back  there  again." 

"No,  not  to  the  terrace,"  he  said;  and  she, 
looking  quickly  up  at  him,  surprised  a  wry  smile 
on  his  lips,  as  if  he  had  tasted  something  bitter. 
"The  terrace  is  as  impossible  for  me  as  it  can 
be  for  you." 

Those  words,  for  the  rest  of  the  way  they  walked, 
she  kept  turning  and  turning  in  her  mind,  and 
at  every  turn  they  hurt  her  deeper.  He  had 
added:  "It's  to  my  house  that  we're  going. 
There  are  some  things  there  I  want  you  to  see;" 
but  she  hardly  heard  him,  and  remained  ap 
parently  oblivious  to  her  surroundings,  even  after 
he  had  ushered  her  into  his  sitting-room  and 
got  her  seated  in  the  big  chair  at  the  far  side  of 
his  writing  table. 


The  Price  231 

He  seated  himself  before  it  and  rummaged  for 
a  few  minutes  in  a  drawer,  getting  some  scattered 
papers  together  before  he  spoke.  They  were  both 
rather  pale.  The  tenseness  of  the  situation  grew 
through  the  silence  and  still  more  in  the  quiet, 
almost  matter-of-fact  tone  in  which  he  at  last 
began  to  speak. 

"That  evening  in  the  restaurant  in  Paris — " 

It  was  almost  like  a  cry  from  under  the  sur 
geon's  knife  that  interrupted  him.  "Don't! 
It  can't  be  necessary  to  go  back  to  that.  That 
—  that  is  buried." 

"No,"  he  said,  still  quietly.  "That  is  the 
only  thing  that  is  not  buried.  The  man  who 
came  into  your  life  for  a  little  while  on  carnival 
day  and  went  out  of  it  again  without  telling  you 
his  name  or  letting  you  tell  him  yours,  who  doesn't 
know  it  to-day  and  never  will  know  it,  is  the  man 
who  is  talking  to  you  now.  It  isn't  Comrade 
John,  not  the  man  who  spent  that  wonderful 
day  with  you  on  the  terrace,  not  the  man,  John 
Chance,  he  will  turn  into  in  a  few  hours  more, 
when  he's  done  his  last  job  here  at  Beechcroft. 
He  would  have  no  right  to  bring  you  here,  no 
right  to  concern  himself  with  you  or  with  your 
world.  But  I,  the  —  the  Monsieur  Jean  to 


232  Comrade  John 

whom  you  returned  the  borrowed  clothes,  I  have 
taken  another  job,  with  the  same  authority  I 
had  for  the  one  I  undertook  in  Paris ;  that  I  find 
you  again  in  a  danger  you  do  not  see,  a  danger 
graver  now  than  then." 

He  paused  there  for  an  instant  and  smiled  at 
her,  the  same  odd,  engaging  smile  that  she  re 
membered  across  the  restaurant  table  where  they 
had  eaten  their  dinner  backward.  It  brought 
the  color  back  into  her  cheeks  and  brightened 
her  eyes  with  tears.  "Can  you  keep  that  dis 
tinction  straight  ?  —  hold  on  to  it  tight  ?  For 
it  is  the  whole  point  of  the  story.  The  man 
whose  fraud  betrayed  you  into  danger  and  whose 
cowardice  kept  him  from  saving  you  from  it  — 
was  Comrade  John,  himself." 

He  saw  her  eyes  widen  suddenly  at  that,  with 
incredulous  protest,  and  after  a  moment  lowered 
his  own,  but  his  voice  went  straight  on  without 
a  falter.  "His  real  name  was  John  Chance. 
He  was  a  showman,  a  bit  of  a  faker,  but  he  had 
a  knack  of  making  buildings  and  landscapes 
into  pictures  that  made  the  people  who  came 
to  look  at  them  feel  gay  and,  for  a  little  while, 
care-free.  He  built  the  Looking-Glass  Park  at 
Pittsburg,  that  you  and  I  talked  about  that  night 


The  Price  233 

in  Paris.  Well,  a  man  came  to  him  one  night  last 
February  in  need  of  a  miracle,  a  man  who  needed 
such  a  thing  in  his  business.  He  had  invented 
and  patented  a  religion  that  was  making  him 
rich.  It  was  built,  like  all  the  copyrighted  gos 
pels,  on  the  lie  —  one  of  the  oldest  of  all  lies, 
I  guess  —  that  you  can  get  something  for 
nothing.  He  said  you  could  achieve  something 
worth  while  by  toil  without  weariness,  or  sweat, 
or  suffering;  that  you  could  be  happy  by  just 
pretending  hard  enough  that  you  were.  He  pre 
tended  to  offer  another  looking-glass  country  — 
that  is  about  the  size  of  it  —  where  you  could 
find  character  and  happiness  ready-made.  People 
are  credulous  in  the  direction  of  their  hopes,  and 
this  pretence  of  his  was  making  him  rich,  him 
and  the  men  who  had  organized  him  and  stood 
behind  him  financially. 

"But  he  was  ambitious.  Where  he  was  get 
ting  hundreds  of  thousands  he  wanted  millions, 
and  for  that  he  needed  the  miracle.  He  wanted 
what  would  look  like  a  demonstration  that  the 
religion  would  work.  He  asked  John  Chance 
to  undertake  it,  and  John  Chance  was  ready  to, 
for  twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  But  when 
he  found  that  the  work  was  to  be  a  fraud,  that 


234  Comrade  John 

he  would  be  expected  to  help  delude  people  into 
the  idea  that  his  work  was  the  miraculous  flower 
ing  of  the  soul  of  Herman  Stein,  —  well,  he 
didn't  refuse  to  do  it;  he  just  doubled  his  price. 
He  would  do  the  work  for  so  much,  and  he  would 
cheat  for  as  much  again.  He  would  dress  up 
like  one  of  Stein's  dupes,  and  hide  his  name,  and 
keep  his  models  and  working  drawings  and  es 
timates  out  of  sight,  and  at  last  stand  by  with  a 
straight  face  when  the  prophet  took  the  triumph 
he  had  made  for  him.  John  Chance  agreed  to 
do  it  all.  He  was  under  contract  to  do  it  while 
we  were  together  —  you  and  I  —  in  Paris.  He 
came  back  here  and  hired  hundreds  of  men. 
He  brought  them  to  Beechcroft  and  worked  them, 
night  and  day,  worked  them  till  they  sweated  and 
ached  with  fatigue.  He  built  that  temple  under 
canvas,  he  dammed  the  valley  overnight  and  made 
the  lake,  and  when  the  day  came  for  Herman 
Stein's  miracle  to  be  displayed,  it  was  ready." 

It  was  the  thing  he  had  meant  least  to  do, 
letting  that  thrill  of  triumph  in  a  difficult  piece 
of  work,  consummately  well  done,  creep  into  his 
recital.  He  had  meant  to  keep  the  bald  and 
naked  outline  of  the  fraud  unobscured.  But  this 
thing,  it  seems,  could  be  told  in  no  other  way. 


The  Price  235 

It  was  part  of  the  essential  truth  of  the  story  and 
he  could  not  keep  it  out.  Equally  involuntarily, 
as  he  concluded,  he  looked  up  at  the  girl. 

The  things  he  had  been  saying  were  calculated 
to  pull  her  whole  world  down  about  her 
ears.  They  cut,  one  by  one,  all  the  roots  she 
had  been  putting  out  into  what  she  had  believed 
to  be,  an  hour  ago,  the  true  soil  and  nourishment 
for  her  life.  But  no  consciousness  of  any  such 
thing  showed  in  her  face.  It  was  all  alight. 
He  lowered  his  eyes  and  clenched  his  hands  as 
she  began  to  speak. 

"And  it  was  yours,  all  yours?  That  lovely 
dream?" 

His  voice  was  harsh  with  emotion  when  he  an 
swered  her,  the  voice  of  a  mutineer  to  the  iron 
discipline  he  had  imposed  on  himself.  "Yes, 
it  was  mine;  every  form,  every  color,  every 
reflection.  It  was  my  dream  and  my  work  — 
there's  a  clay  model  of  it  in  the  next  room  there. 
Do  you  want  to  look  at  it?" 

She  rose,  nodding  an  eager  assent,  and  he 
opened  the  door  for  her. 

The  first  expression  on  her  face  as  she  looked 
at  it  was  of  a  sort  of  puzzled  disappointment.  The 
thing  was  a  small-scale  clay  model  of  the  whole 


236  Comrade  John 

of  upper  Beechcroft.  The  color  looked  dead  in 
the  gray,  ill-lighted  room,  and  the  cluster  of 
little  buildings  hanging  halfway  up  the  side  of 
the  narrow,  gloomy,  deep-cut  valley  had  hardly 
a  hint  about  it  of  the  thing  she  knew.  He  read 
her  look. 

"No,  that's  not  the  way  you  saw  it,"  he  said. 
He  switched  on  a  warm,  intense  light,  specially 
calculated  to  illuminate  it,  and  then  lifted  a  heavy 
plate  of  silvered  glass  which  had  been  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  slid  it  into  grooves  prepared 
for  it.  "We  floored  the  valley  with  a  mirror, 
so.  It  was  frowning  before,  and  I  wanted  it  to 
laugh  and  sing." 

She  looked  at  it  in  silence,  and  then  again,  in 
hardly  more  than  a  whisper,  "Your  dream!" 

"Yes,"  he  assented;  "but  it's  easy  to  dream. 
It's  making  the  dream  come  true  that  counts. 
It  means  facing  the  facts  and  taking  them  in 
both  hands,  even  if  they  hurt.  It  means  turning 
your  dreams  into  mathematics  and  your  mathe 
matics  into  hard,  rough,  refractory  materials.  It 
was  real  work  that  did  the  miracle,  not  Stein's 
painless  imitation  of  it.  Look !"  he  commanded, 
and  strode  over  to  the  model.  "  Down  to  here,  all 
this  upper  group  of  buildings  and  the  dam  that 


Tlie  Price  237 

held  up  the  mirror,  we  built  —  we  real  work 
men,  in  sixty-three  days.  And  then  we  dis 
charged  most  of  them,  and  dressed  up  the  ones 
we  kept  in  imitation  of  Stein's  disciples.  We 
let  them  work  the  way  the  disciples  worked,  six 
hours  a  day,  and  loaf  whenever  they  felt  tired. 
We  paid  them  all  along  for  ten  hours'  work. 
The  expectation  had  been  that  the  real  Beech- 
crofters  would  work  with  them,  but  —  well, 
to  make  a  building,  any  sort  of  a  building  that 
will  stand  up,  you  have  to  put  real  work  into  it. 
And  at  last,  two  days  ago,  the  men  got  demor 
alized  to  the  point  where  they  struck,  and  I 
discharged  them  all,  packed  them  off  to  the  city. 
And  then  I  telephoned  Hobbema  to  find  Stein 
for  me  and  send  him  up  to  meet  me  at  the  temple 
steps  before  dark."  He  heard  the  sharp,  sudden 
intaking  of  her  breath  at  that,  but  had  no  clew 
to  it,  and  went  steadily  on.  "When  he  came,  I 
told  him  what  I  had  done.  I  told  him  if  there 
was  a  chance  of  saving  his  religion  from  being 
a  laughing-stock,  it  lay  in  making  his  followers 
do  a  little  real  work,  even  if  it  hurt  their  backs. 
There  wasn't  much  left  to  do,  but  it  was  work 
that  had  to  be  done.  And  yesterday,  Beechcroft 
tried  it.  They  accomplished,  the  whole  of  them, 


238  Comrade  John 

about  five  men's  work.  And  to-day  —  well, 
to-day,  it's  too  late  to  matter." 

To  the  suggestion  in  his  last  words  she  paid, 
for  the  moment,  no  heed.  She  leaned  against 
the  edge  of  the  bench  which  held  the  model,  still 
looking  at  it  with  half-shut  eyes.  Then,  in  a 
thoughtful  voice  which  sounded  scorn  a  hundred 
fathoms  deeper  than  any  more  vigorous  expres 
sion  could  have  done,  she  quoted  the  prophet's 
benediction,  "Toil  without  weariness  and  achieve 
Beauty."  Then  she  turned  upon  him.  "How 
could  they  go  on  believing  it,  with  the  truth  right 
there  before  their  eyes,  all  the  time?" 

"People  are  ready  enough  to  believe  in  any 
easy  thing.  It's  the  hard  thing  they're  incredu 
lous  about." 

"And  all  the  while,  you  —  you  kept  a  straight 
face.  You  went  to  the  temple,  you  wore  the 
clothes,  and  followed  observances,  you  never  be 
trayed  the  contempt  you  must  have  felt  for 
all  of  them.  Yes,  once  you  did.  You  told  me 
you  supposed  a  person  might  find  a  real  job, 
even  here  at  Beechcroft." 

She  spoke  the  words  in  just  the  tone  she  used 
before,  impersonally,  with  no  hesitation.  But 
the  sound  of  them  in  her  ears  as  in  his  was  like 


The  Price  239 

the  solemn  statement  of  a  tragic  theme  toward 
the  end  of  a  symphony.  The  current  of  their 
talk  had  given  them  a  little  respite,  which  they 
had  taken  eagerly,  and  now  it  was  over.  The 
real  issue,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  was  star 
ing  at  them  out  of  each  other's  eyes;  there  was 
no  blinking  it  any  longer.  They  had  got  down 
to  the  quick  at  last,  where  every  stroke  of  the 
knife  must  hurt. 

He  stood  gazing  into  her  eyes,  fascinated  by 
the  look  he  saw  dawning  there,  bewilderment  and 
then  fear.  He  did  not  note  her  increasing  pallor 
nor  that  she  swayed  about  giddily,  until  he  saw 
her  clutch  at  the  edge  of  the  table  to  save  herself 
from  falling.  "That  light,  up  overhead,  seemed 
to  get  into  my  eyes,"  she  said,  as  he  helped  her 
into  a  chair  in  the  other  room.  He  offered  to 
loosen  her  collar,  and  went  around  behind  the 
chair  to  do  it,  but  she  told  him  it  was  not  necessary. 
She  would  be  all  right  in  a  moment.  She  had 
spoken,  and  when  she  went  on  it  was  still  true, 
in  almost  the  quiet  tone  of  casual  conversation. 
His  attitude,  there  behind  her  chair,  had  brought 
something  to  her  memory.  "Put  your  hands 
on  my  shoulders,  please,"  she  said.  "Things 
are  all  falling  —  falling  in,  somehow,  the  way 


240  Comrade  John 

they  were  that  day  when  you  did  it  before."  But 
his  hands  were  not  as  they  had  been  that  former 
time,  steady,  magnetic,  the  one  stable  thing 
in  her  universe.  They  were  shaking  as  if  some 
spell  laid  upon  him  had  palsied  them. 

"It  is  true,"  she  began.  "But  you  needn't 
stand  there.  Come  around  where  I  can  see  you. 
It  is  true,  isn't  it,  that  people  are  incredulous 
about  the  hard  things?  It  took  me  so  long  to 
see  what  it  all  meant.  To  see — "  Oh,  if  only 
her  voice  would  break,  that  light,  even  ghastly 
voice,  that  made  him  shudder  —  "to  see  that 
all  my  little  fool's  paradise  had  tumbled  down  to 
gether.  That  what  you  had  told  me  that  day 
on  the  terrace  was  just  a  part  of  it." 

"Not  that,  God  forbid,  not  that !  All  the  rest 
of  my  life  may  have  been  a  lie,  a  cowardly  lie, 
but  that  was  true.  That,  that  I  loved  you,  that 
I  will  go  on  loving  you  so  long  as  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  I  in  earth  or  heaven,  that  was  truth 
dug  out  of  the  very  core  of  my  soul.  God  knows 
I  had  no  right  to  tell  you,  but  God  knows  I  told 
the  truth." 

"But  that  very  day,  that  very  moment,  — " 
still  that  quiet,  unbroken  voice,  —  "you  told 
me  that  you  were  just  one  of  the  disciples,  like 


The  Price  241 

the  rest  of  us.  That  there  wasn't  any  other 
reason  than  that  why  you  were  here." 

"  That  was  the  moment  I  knew  the  truth ;  knew 
that  I  loved  you.  It  was  the  lie  that  taught  me." 

She  sat  there  unmoved,  her  eyes  wistful,  indeed, 
but  her  lips  almost  smiling.  "You  came  back 
to  me  after  all,  after  you  knew  my  answer  to  you, 
and  even  then  you  denied  me  the  truth,  though 
I  asked  for  it." 

"I  was  a  coward,"  he  said.  "I  was  afraid  to 
give  you  up." 

She  arose  quickly  and  stood  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes. 

"That  is  not  the  truth,  even  now,"  she  said 
sadly,  but  still  with  no  trace  of  vehemence. 
"You  knew  there  was  nothing  then  that  I  would 
not  forgive  you;  no,  nothing  that  I  would  see 
a  need  for  forgiving.  I  wanted  your  heart's 
heart,  as  I  had  offered  you  mine.  And  you  knew ; 
you  were  not  afraid.  You  would  have  smiled 
at  fear." 

To  that  he  had  no  answer  to  make  at  all,  and 
after  looking  at  him  a  moment,  and  seeing  that 
this  was  so,  she  turned  away  from  him.  The 
action  marked  the  end,  not  of  her  self-control, 
but  of  the  curious  numbness  which  had  so  closely 


242  Comrade  John 

resembled  it.  She  dropped  back  into  the  chair, 
her  head  cowering  between  her  arms,  her  body 
shaken  with  sobs,  like  some  frail  thing  smitten 
suddenly  by  a  tempest.  And  when  she  could 
find  voice,  when  in  the  lulls  of  the  storm  she  could 
force  her  lips  to  articulate,  it  was  to  beg  him  to 
make  her  believe  that  what  he  had  said  was  true, 
make  her.  He  must  give  her  something  to  cling 
to,  for  all  the  world  was  falling  down. 

He  stood  by  through  it  all,  until  the  storm 
should  beat  itself  out,  in  a  miserable  silence, 
with  no  word  to  say,  his  mind  running  helplessly 
in  a  circular  groove,  to  no  purpose  whatever. 
It  was  with  no  aid  from  him  that  she  got  control 
of  herself  at  last  and  turned  again  to  him. 

She  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair  and  brushed 
her  handkerchief  across  her  eyes.  " There!'* 
she  said.  "It  is  buried  now;  it  is  all  buried,  as 
you  said,  except  you,  except  Monsieur  Jean, 
who  helped  me  when  I  needed  help  so  badly 
before.  Will  you  help  again,  tell  me  what  to  do, 
and  make  me  mind,  before  you  go  away  without 
letting  me  tell  you  my  name  ?"  Her  eyes  met  his 
bravely,  and  there  was  even  a  smile,  an  uncertain 
smile,  on  her  lips.  The  sight  of  that  smile,  after 
all  the  agony  he  had  been  looking  at  dry-eyed, 


The  Price  243 

brought  a  sudden  rush  of  tears  that  blurred  his 
vision  of  her.  He  wiped  them  away  with  both 
hands,  frankly,  but  with  a  touch  of  impatience, 
as  he  had  once  wiped  away  the  water  that  blinded 
him  after  his  plunge  into  the  pool.  When  she 
could  see  his  face  again,  he  was  smiling,  too. 

"It's  the  same  old  story,"  he  said,  "I  have 
to  tell  you  just  what  I  told  you  in  Paris,  and  to 
make  you  do  what  you  did  then.  This  is  a 
looking-glass  country,  and  you  must  go  away 
from  it.  I  want  you  to  take  the  morning  train 
for  New  York"  —  he  looked  at  his  watch  as  he 
spoke  —  "and  that  means  hurrying  a  little.  But 
Bill  Hemenway  has  a  horse  hitched  up,  and  I 
will  drive  you  down.  You  will  have  time  to 
write  a  note  to  your  aunt  from  here,  telling 
where  you  have  gone,  and  asking  her  to  pack 
your  things  with  hers  and  follow  you." 

Haste  spoke  more  loudly  in  his  manner  and 
voice  than  in  the  words  themselves,  and  she  looked 
at  him  curiously.  "I  shall  go  away,  of  course," 
she  said.  "If  you  are  in  a  hurry  because  you 
are  afraid  I  shall  change  my  mind  about  that  — 
that  I  can  be  duped  a  second  time,  it  is  a  ground 
less  fear.  Is  there  any  other  need  for  haste  than 
that?" 


244  Comrade  John 

"Yes,"  he  said  gravely,  "there  is  —  urgent 
need." 

"Even  in  Paris,  Monsieur  Jean,  you  told  me 
the  reason  why." 

"And  won't  you  go  now  without  knowing?" 

She  thought  a  moment.  Then:  "No,"  she 
said.  "I  think  I  will  wait  for  the  reason.  This 
looking-glass  country  can  hardly  be  dangerous 
now  that  I  shall  not  go  blindfold." 

"But  the  looking-glass  is  going  to  be  broken 
to-day;  that  is  the  reason  you  must  go  now, 
quickly." 

"Broken?    To-day?     I  don't  understand." 

He  drew  a  step  nearer  her,  and  spoke  more 
swiftly.  "John  Chance  is  going  to  break  it. 
He  has  sent  back  the  pay  he  got  for  the  work, 
for  the  work  and  for  the  fraud,  to  the  man  who 
hired  him.  And  in  this  room,  this  morning,  he 
has  paid  the  rest  of  the  price,  paid  what  he  had 
to  pay  before  he  could  be  free  to  do  this  thing. 
And  now  he  is  going  to  pull  down  the  whole  house 
of  cards.  He  is  going  to  do  it  within  an  hour. 
There  will  be  no  prophet  and  no  band  of  disciples 
here  to-night.  There  may  be  a  mob,  and  there 
will  certainly  be  one  desperate  and  discredited 
man.  Herman  Stein,  sitting  amid  his  ruins,  will 


The  Price  245 

be  dangerous  whether  the  mob  is  or  not,  and  he 
will  be  dangerous  most  of  all  to  you.  Now  do 
you  see?  Will  you  go  now,  at  once?" 

She  stood  thoughtful,  quite  unmoved  by  the 
urgency  of  his  voice,  and  repeated  his  words, 
"amid  his  ruins,"  under  her  breath.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  him,  into  his  face  with  a  sort  of 
eagerness,  as  if  she  were  searching  for  something 
there,  and  not  finding  it.  At  last,  turning  away 
from  him,  she  seated  herself  again  in  the  big  chair. 

"We  can't  do  it,  either  of  us,"  she  said  un 
evenly.  "I  can't  make  believe  you're  —  Mon 
sieur  Jean — and  you  can't  make  me  mind." 

"You're  going  to  stay?"  he  asked,  and  then, 
with  more  emphasis,  "You're  not  going  to  give 
Herman  Stein  another  chance  to  talk  with  you?" 

She  nodded  affirmatively  to  both  questions. 
"Can't  you  understand  why?  I  can't  separate 
you  into  two  men,  and  call  the  man  who  did  wrong 
'  Comrade  John,'  and  bury  him,  and  call  the  man 
I  love  ' Monsieur  Jean'  —  yes,  I  did  love  him, 
from  that  very  first  hour,  from  the  very  first 
minute  when  he  smiled  at  me  and  made  the  whole 
world  seem  clean  and  fresh  and  happy  all  at 
once  —  I  can't  go  on  loving  him  and  letting 
him  make  me  mind.  I  thought  perhaps  I  could. 


246  Comrade  John 

If  I  could  even  have  pretended  to,  I  would  have 
done  it.  But  you  see  it  was  no  use.  And,  now, 
don't  you  see  that  perhaps  there  are  two  men  in 
Mr.  Stein,  and  one  of  them  honest,  really  trying 
and  hoping  for  something.  And  I  can't  go  away 
without  hearing  that  man's  story,  too." 

"There  is  more  of  his  story  that  you  haven't 
heard,"  he  said.  "I  thought  that  this  I  have  told 
you  would  have  been  enough  — " 

"It  was  enough,"  she  interrupted,  "enough 
to  open  my  eyes,  enough  to  keep  me  from  ever 
being  his  dupe  again.  But  suppose  there  is 
another  man  altogether,  a  man  you  don't  guess 
at  any  more  than  I  guessed  — " 

She  had  no  need  to  finish,  and  saw  as  much 
in  his  face.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said, 
by  either  of  them.  But  still  she  did  not  rise. 

He  was  quick  to  comprehend  her  difficulty. 
She  felt  she  could  not  leave  him  so,  leave  him 
forever  with  no  gentler  valedictory,  and  yet  to 
go  beneath  the  surface  again,  to  stand  soul  to 
soul  with  him  for  that  last  moment  was  a  thing 
she  lacked  the  courage  and  the  strength  to  do. 
Here,  at  last,  was  a  situation  he  was  equal  to,  and 
something  of  his  old  look  of  whimsical  command 
touched  his  eyes  and  lips. 


The  Price  247 

"We  needn't  say  good-by,  then,"  he  said. 
"I  shall  be  here  until  I  have  finished  this  job  of 
mine,  and  you  won't  be  leaving  before  this  after 
noon.  So  we  shall  see  each  other  again." 

She  smiled  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of 
his  tact  in  sparing  her,  smiled  a  little  tremulously, 
for  that  old,  familiar  look  pierced,  somehow. 
She  met  his  outstretched  hand  with  a  pressure 
that  could  pass  for  merely  friendly  courtesy,  said 
a  word  or  two  —  she  did  not  know  just  what 
—  and  was  gone. 

But  neither  his  face,  nor  his  walk,  as  he  went 
back  into  the  big  room,  nor  the  poise  of  his 
shoulders  as  he  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  none 
of  them  belonged  to  a  beaten  man.  His  slate 
was  clean.  He  had  sought  no  discharge  in 
bankruptcy,  but  had  paid  every  ounce  of  his 
debt.  He  was  not  beaten.  For  the  first  time, 
mind  and  soul  and  body,  if  need  were,  were  free 
to  fight. 

The  note  he  was  writing  to  Herman  Stein 
flowed  out  of  his  pen  so  easily  that  it  hardly 
obstructed  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  promise  to  Ellen.  It  was  not 
defaulted  yet,  and  it  should  not  be. 

This  is  the  note  he  was  writing  to  Stein :  — 


248  Comrade  John 

DEAR  MR.  STEIN:  — 

I  telegraphed  last  night  to  Mr.  James  Heath, 
of  the  New  York  World,  that  I  had  something 
of  great  importance  to  tell  him,  and  asked  him 
to  come  down  here  this  morning.  He  is  due  in  a 
few  minutes.  When  he  comes  I  shall  tell  him 
all  the  facts  regarding  my  contract  with  you  and 
the  interests  backing  you  for  the  construction 
work  that  has  gone  on  here  at  Beechcroft.  I 
shall  also  tell  him  what  further  facts  I  have  re 
garding  your  connection,  financial  and  otherwise, 
with  the  Toil  and  Triumph  movement.  If  you 
care  to  be  present  at  the  interview,  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  have  you.  If  not,  I  shall  send  Mr.  Heath 
around  to  you  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  with 
him. 

I  have  returned  the  first  instalment  of  my  fee 
for  the  work  to  the  source  from  which  I  received 
it,  and  shall  send  back  the  check  for  the  second 
as  soon  as  I  have  shown  it  to  Mr.  Heath. 
Yours  very  truly, 

JOHN  CHANCE. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CYNTHIA  DISCOVERS  THE  WORLD 

HERMAN  STEIN  was  standing  by  his  study 
window.  One  James  Heath,  of  the  World,  had 
come  and  gone,  —  had  come  with  a  dry  little 
note  of  introduction  from  John  Chance,  and  a 
pocketful  of  affidavits  and  other  documentary 
evidence  of  the  great,  the  humorous,  Beechcroft 
fraud;  had  driven  off  in  the  dusty  old  livery 
surrey  without  the  slightest  reflection  of  Stein's 
heat  on  his  fat,  cynical  face.  Hobbema,  too,  had 
come  and  gone,  leaving  a  scrupulously  kept  set 
of  books  and  an  impression  of  impenetrable 
trickery  behind  him.  With  his  wife  and  his 
luggage  he  was  by  this  time  well  on  his  way  to 
New  York.  Perhaps  the  papers  would  be  on  the 
street  by  the  time  he  stepped  off  the  ferry-boat. 
There  was  a  certain  Wall  Street  financier  who 
would  also  read  the  account ;  the  cynical  reporter 
had  spoken  of  bringing  it  to  his  notice. 
249 


250  Comrade  John 

Stein  had  been  standing  there  longer  than  he 
knew.  There  were  a  good  many  things  to  think 
about.  He  had  found  money  pretty  tight  lately, 
for  one  thing.  Extensive  building  and  landscape 
work  can  rarely  be  kept  within  estimates;  and 
it  was  a  disturbing  thought  that  between  Stein 
the  triumphant  overlord  and  Stein  the  beggar 
there  stood  nothing  but  a  bundle  of  notes  — 
judgment  notes  —  and  a  few  thousand  dollars 
in  currency,  some  of  it  in  the  steel  room  at  the 
temple,  the  rest  of  it  in  Hobbema's  safe.  To 
set  over  against  these  notes  he  had  only  his  pres 
tige,  his  success,  only  what  might  be  technically 
called  his  "good- will."  What  if  this  scathing, 
blistering  exposure  of  Stein  the  sybarite,  Stein 
the  liar,  Stein  the  cheap  fraud,  were,  at  a  blow, 
to  wipe  out  that  "  good- will "!  What  if  a  few 
hundred  thousand  admirers  should  overnight 
cease  admiring  and  begin  to  laugh  !  There  would 
be  no  dividends  in  that  laugh. 

The  prophet's  face  could  hardly  now  be  called 
impassive.  There  were  momentary  sparks  in 
the  eyes,  and  the  muscles  on  his  jaws  stood  out; 
but  the  deeper  lines  about  the  mouth  showed  that 
the  will  which  had  ruled  a  thousand  men  —  and 
women  —  as  a  king  rules  —  was  still  doggedly 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  251 

holding  the  command.  The  real  change  was 
in  the  man's  body,  in  the  muscles,  and  in  the 
nerves  which  controlled  those  muscles.  At  last 
he  found  himself  plunged  into  a  struggle  which 
would  demand  all  his  steadiness  of  hand,  every 
ounce  of  his  courage,  and  his  big  frame  was 
responding  to  the  call.  All  his  reserves  were 
rushing  to  the  front.  He  was  burning  up  energy 
now  as  he  never  had  burned  it  before. 

The  tall  mission  clock  in  the  hall  struck  five, 
and  he  turned.  Chance's  note  was  still  crumpled 
in  his  hand,  and  he  dropped  it  into  the  fireplace. 
Then,  with  a  heavy  sort  of  deliberation,  he  set 
off  down  the  valley  toward  the  little  cottage  that 
stood  among  the  pines.  It  was  now  a  fight  to  a 
finish  between  himself  and  John  Chance.  Quar 
ter  would  be  neither  granted  nor  asked.  And  so 
he  went  to  Cynthia  first.  4 

She  did  not  keep  him  waiting.  He  had  little 
more  than  crossed  the  dim  living-room,  to  the 
window  that  overlooked  the  brook,  before  she 
came  down.  The  color  had  left  her  face,  and 
she  carried  herself  a  little  wearily,  but  there  was 
a  brave  light  in  her  eyes.  If  all  her  gods  had 
crumbled,  she  would  still  walk  forward  in  the 
dark.  All  this  he  saw,  and  he  did  not  offer  his 


252  Comrade  John 

hand.  He  stood  in  the  shadow,  looking  gravely 
into  the  troubled  eyes. 

"Tell  me  what  disturbs  you,  Comrade,"  he 
said. 

She  sank  on  the  window-seat,  but  did  not  lean 
back  among  the  cushions.  She  wished  he  would 
take  a  chair,  —  it  would  make  it  easier  to  say 
what  she  had  to  say.  Finally  she  spoke  out: 
"I  wish  you  would  sit  down,  Mr.  Stein."  But 
he  continued  to  stand,  an  erect,  solid  figure,  and 
to  look  gravely,  compassionately  down  at  her. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  again.  "You  are  in 
trouble." 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  but  her  eyes  fell  away. 
She  had  not  foreseen  the  difference  his  mere 
presence  would  make.  One  hand  strayed  to  a 
cushion  and  fingered  the  cord  that  bound  it. 
Then  her  slender  fingers  straightened  a  little. 
"I  am  wondering,"  she  said  slowly,  "what  I 
ought  to  think  of  people  like  my  parents  and  my 
aunt  —  people  who  let  a  girl  go  where  she  likes, 
act  as  she  likes,  meet  whom  she  likes.  My  parents 
knew  I  was  not  happy  in  our  little  city  —  they 
let  me  go  to  my  aunt.  I  went  because  I  wanted 
to  find  the  looking-glass  country  where  people 
don't  live  in  rows  of  stupid  houses  and  wear  the 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  253 

things  that  other  stupid  people  think  they  ought 
to  wear,  and  eat  the  things  that  other  stupid 
people  think  they  ought  to  eat.  That  never  was 
real  to  me;  it  was  not  life,  as  I  had  dreamed  of 
it."  She  paused,  musing.  "  Yes,  I  had  dreamed. 
It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I  might  find,  somewhere, 
a  country  made  up  of  real  things  and  real  people, 
where  I  could  be  happy.  I  was  so  tired  of  the 
little  things.  I  wanted  something  that  could 
thrill  me  —  I  wanted  to  feel  real  life  flowing 
through  me." 

She  looked  thoughtfully  out  at  the  brook. 
The  first  twilight  shadows  were  creeping  out  from 
beneath  the  pines.  "I  thought  I  had  found  it'in 
Paris  —  I  wanted  to  stay  there  —  and  live,  really 
live.  And  then  the  only  person  who  had  ever 
made  me  mind  told  me  that  I  must  go  away. 
He  said  —  I  remember  exactly  —  he  said  that 
there  is  no  looking-glass  country.  He  said  that 
everybody  has  to  mind,  grown  up  or  not,  that 
when  you're  a  child  you're  a  part  of  some  one 
else's  job,  and  you  have  to  mind  that  person 
because  he's  responsible  for  you,  but  when  you've 
a  job  of  your  own,  — "  an  oddly  breathless  quality 
had  come  into  her  voice,  —  "  when  there's  a  piece 
of  work  that  you've  got  to  mind  because  it's  up 


254  Comrade  John 

to  you,  then  you're  grown  up.  And  he  said  that 
either  way  you've  got  to  mind  something,  or  you're 
on  the  way  to  everlasting  smash.  It  frightened 
me  when  he  said  that  —  Paris  was  so  beautiful 

—  so  real.     It  was  carnival  time  —  and  I  thought 
I  was  part  of  it  —  I  thought  I  belonged  there 

—  until   he   frightened   me   that   way.     He   said 
that  people  without  jobs  go  to  Paris  because  they 
think  it  is  a  looking-glass  country,  but  that  they 
get  what  is  coming  to  them  there  just  as  surely 
as  in  a  steel  mill." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  He  was  afraid  that 
she  had  stopped,  but  after  a  time  she  went  on. 
"I  told  him  I  had  no  one  to  mind,  and  he  said 
that  I  must  get  a  job  then.  So  I  didn't  stay  in 
Paris.  I  let  him  send  me  away  as  if  I  had  been 
a  child."  She  smiled  faintly,  reminiscently, 
and  a  touch  of  color  came  into  her  face.  Stem's 
great  chest  moved  with  a  slow  inhalation.  But 
the  thoughts  that  surged  and  clashed  in  the  back 
of  his  mind  were  held  in  an  iron  leash.  His 
reserves  were  at  the  front,  but  he  had  not  yet 
thrown  them  into  action.  His  last  resource  had  not 
yet  been  drawn  on ;  and  as  he  studied  that  fresh 
young  face,  with  the  eyes  that  dreamed,  and  the 
mouth  that  smiled,  even  in  the  presence  of  golden 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  255 

illusions  that  had  turned  to  brass,  and  the  color 
that  came  and  went  in  soft,  utterly  charming 
little  waves,  and  as  he  felt  the  power  which  this 
last  resource  gave  him,  the  very  blood  in  his  veins 
and  arteries  tingled  with  the  mad  lionlike  joy 
of  it.  She  was  playing  so  naively  into  his  hands  ! 
He  watched  that  unconscious  half-smile  fade  out, 
and  gave  a  very  little  rope  to  the  exulting  thoughts 
that  were  clamoring  within  him  as  a  pack  of 
hounds  clamor  at  the  kennel  door.  He  must  not 
let  them  out,  —  yet,  —  but  they  were  there,  and 
he  was  their  master. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  "I  let  him  send  me  away. 
I  came  back.  And  I  found  a  job.  I  believed 
it  was  a  real  job  —  one  big  enough  to  live  and 
die  for  —  because  he  was  here  —  he  was  a  part 
of  it  —  and  I  believed  in  him.  And  now  he 
tells  me  that  this  is  not  a  looking-glass  country 
either  —  that  it  is  a  lie,  like  Paris.  I  could  not 
believe  it.  He  had  to  tell  me  that  —  that  he 
was  a  lie  himself,  before  I  could  believe  it.  And 
he  told  me  —  that  —  you  — " 

It  was  harder  than  she  had  foreseen.  A  sob 
came  unexpectedly  into  her  throat.  She  tried 
to  go  on,  but  could  not  get  out  the  words  that 
her  fine  spirit  of  fair  dealing  insisted  on  his 


256  Comrade  John 

hearing,  and  from  her.  She  tried  to  look  out 
at  the  brook,  but  could  see  only  a  blur  of  light  and 
shade.  Another  miserable  sob  shook  her,  and 
still  another.  A  wild  impulse  caught  her  to  run 
—  upstairs  —  out  doors  —  anywhere  to  escape 
this  net  of  sinister  circumstances  which  seemed 
to  settle  more  snugly  about  her  whichever  way 
she  turned,  whatever  she  did  or  left  undone. 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  ashamed, 
yet  angry  that  she  was  ashamed. 

It  was  not  pretty,  this  sudden  glimpse  of  the 
truth.  There  was  about  it  none  of  the  dreamy 
beauty  of  the  looking-glass  land  she  had  travelled 
so  far  to  find.  Chastened,  saddened,  yet  after 
all  oddly  relieved,  she  saw  at  last  with  her  own 
eyes  that  life  is  very  real,  and  that  ready-made 
happiness  is  not  one  of  the  facts  which  make  it 
up.  She  was  accountable  for  herself,  it  began 
to  seem,  for  this  empty,  silly  life  of  hers.  No 
matter  now  what  was  to  follow  —  she  would 
simply  try  to  face  it  as  it  came. 

So  Cynthia,  sailing  out  of  unreality,  discovered 
the  world.  And  then,  suddenly,  when  she  needed 
it  most,  the  beginning  of  a  clear  path  opened 
up  in  her  bewildered  mind,  leading,  not  out,  but 
a  few  steps  in  the  direction  which  might  ulti- 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World          257 

mately  take  her  out.  And  all  at  once  she  heard 
again  the  murmur  of  the  brook,  and  the  evening 
song  of  the  thrushes,  and  the  faint  human  sounds 
from  the  lower  valley.  What  Monsieur  Jean 
had  said  was  running  clearly  through  her  head. 
"  Everybody  has  to  mind  —  if  they  don't  have 
to  mind  a  person,  they  have  to  mind  a  thing 
they're  responsible  for."  She  could  hear  his 
voice,  she  could  see  his  honest  smile.  She  had 
not  believed  it  then,  because  she  had  not  under 
stood  it.  She  had  merely  accepted  it,  because  his 
personality  was  stronger  than  hers.  She  had 
minded  him,  that  was  all.  But  now,  with  as 
tonishing  suddenness,  she  believed  it,  she  saw 
it  for  herself.  It  was  not,  after  all,  a  great  dis 
covery.  And  such  as  it  was,  the  idea  was  still 
too  young,  too  weak,  to  carry  her  very  steadily 
or  very  far  when  the  deep  ruthless  understanding 
of  Herman  Stein  blocked  the  way,  but  it  was  a 
beginning. 

Over  her,  while  she  swayed  there  on  the  window- 
seat,  stood  the  prophet,  with  a  look  on  his  face 
which  she  did  not  find  there  when  she  dropped 
her  hands  to  her  lap  and  with  new,  quiet  courage 
leaned  back  against  the  cushions  and  looked 
straight  up  at  him.  What  she  saw  was  a  gravely 


258  Comrade  John 

gentle  face  gazing  down  at  her,  so  grave  and  so 
gentle  that  her  doubts  were  shaken.  And  when 
the  prophet  spoke,  the  compassion  in  his  rich, 
low  voice  seemed  to  pour  out  around  her  and 
envelop  her. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "my  poor  child." 
"What,"  she  faltered,  "what  am  I  to  think? 
What  am  I  to  believe?" 

He  ignored  her  question.  "I  wish  I  could  have 
spared  you  this  trouble,  Comrade.  I  should  be 
happier  if  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  make  your  road 
always  clear,  always  easy.  I  would  not  ask  it 
for  myself,  —  I  must  fight,  as  I  have  always 
fought,  —  I  must  face  a  hostile,  an  ugly  world, 
I  must  smile  at  misrepresentation.  I  must  be 
patient  with  those  who  try  to  dishonor  my  name. 
That  is  the  part  I  must  play.  I  have  committed 
myself  to  the  truth,  and  this  deluded  world  about 
us  does  not  want  the  truth.  They  stoned  the 
prophets.  They  shrink  from  the  light.  They 
turn  on  me  and  would  destroy  me.  I  am  weak, 
I  have  but  one  defence,  —  the  light  I  bear.  They 
cannot  stone  that.  They  cannot  put  that  to 
death.  When  they  bury  me  beneath  misrepre 
sentations,  when  there  is  no  way  for  me  to  turn, 
I  cling  to  that  light  —  and  I  know  —  I  see." 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  259 

He  paused  and  drew  a  long,  deep  breath.  She 
was  sitting  erect  now,  her  hands  clasped. 

"Oh,  Comrade,"  —  his  voice  throbbed  with 
feeling,  —  "I  wish  I  could  say  to  you  that  it  is 
an  easy  road.  But  I  never  said  that." 

"No,"  she  breathed,  "you  never  said  that." 

"I  told  you  what  I  have  told  no  one  else  — 
that  it  might  yet  be  my  privilege  to  die  for  my 
faith  —  that  it  was  a  wonderful  thought  to  me. 
If  it  is  true  that  I  would  die  for  it,  what  manner 
of  man  would  I  be  were  I  to  shrink  from  mere 
suffering.  No,  Comrade,  I  face  it  proudly. 
The  world  misunderstands  me  —  I  smile.  The 
world  lies  about  me  —  I  smile.  The  world 
laughs  at  me  —  still  I  smile.  For  I  bear  the 
truth,  and  the  truth  shall  make  them  free." 

His  tense  muscles  relaxed,  and  he  walked  off 
a  little  way,  and  back  again.  There  was  now 
a  gentle,  luminous  smile  on  his  deeply  shadowed 
face.  "Comrade,"  he  said  softly,  "I  should 
have  spared  you  this.  You  came  to  me  with 
your  troubles,  and  I  have  replied  with  my 
own.  I  am  sorry."  For  the  first  time  he 
permitted  himself  to  sit  on  the  window-seat, 
frankly  facing  her.  And  Cynthia  was  con 
scious  of  something  friendly,  of  something 


260  Comrade  John 

pleasantly    human     in     the     action.     But    she 
thought  he  looked  tired. 

"I  am  in  trouble,  too,"  he  continued,  "in 
great  trouble.  They  are  attacking  me  again  — 
in  a  new  way  —  but  with  all  the  old  phrases  — 
fraud,  liar,  false  prophet !  How  many  times 
must  I  face  those  worn-out  words!"  His  face 
grew  slowly  grave  again.  "They  all  misunder 
stand  me.  I  am  not  defending  myself,  Comrade. 
I  —  Herman  Stein,  the  man  —  am  not  worth 
defending.  I  have  made  many  mistakes;  I 
shall  doubtless  make  many  more.  You  see, 
Comrade,  — "  again  came  that  friendly,  wist 
ful  smile,  the  smile  of  a  lonely  soul  resigned  to 
utter  solitude,  —  "Providence  calls  on  men  to 
carry  its  banners.  The  men  are  poor  things  — 
they  wander,  and  stumble,  and  fall.  But  the 
banners  must  somehow  go  on.  I  must  carry 
my  banner  until  I  fall.  I  have  hoped  that  you 
would  go  forward  with  me,  and  that  when  I  fall 
you  would  snatch  it  from  my  hand  and  press  on. 
Perhaps  —  perhaps  I  was  wrong  to  hope  for  so 
much.  You  are  young.  You  are  very  beautiful. 
The  world  still  looks  fresh  and  bright  to  you. 
The  things  of  this  world  are  still  real  to  you." 
He  leaned  a  little  forward.  "Comrade,  you  are 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  261 

still  dreaming.  You  have  not  yet  made  your 
choice." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Finally  the  prophet 
got  to  his  feet.  He  was  not  smiling  now.  His 
weight  seemed  to  rest  heavily  on  his  frame.  He 
looked  older.  She  glanced  up  inquiringly. 

"I  must  face  them,"  he  said.  "But  first  I 
must  go  to  the  temple.  I  can  see  the  light  more 
clearly  there.  I  must  see  it.  Without  it  I  shall 
be  beaten,  for  without  it  I  shall  be  but  one  man 
against  the  world  —  against  the  laughing,  jeering 
world."  He  tried  to  smile  again,  "Come, 
Comrade,"  he  said.  "Your  time  has  come,  too. 
You  must  face  your  decision  as  I  face  mine. 
Come  to  the  temple.  We  will  seek  the  light 
together.  I  will  find  it,  for  I  must.  And  you 
must  find  it  if  you  are  to  go  on  the  way  you  have 
chosen.  If  it  does  not  come  to  you,  then  we  shall 
know,  you  and  I,  that  my  path  is  not  your  path." 

He  waited.  She  looked  out  at  the  brook. 
She  was  surprised  to  observe  that  the  twilight 
was  already  deep  in  the  valley.  Then  she  turned 
back  to  the  dusky  room  and  slowly  rose.  With 
a  sort  of  defiance  she  put  on  a  walking  hat; 
and  together  they  left  the  cottage  and  walked  up 
the  valley  road  past  the  dwellings  and  the  shops. 


262  Comrade  John 

The  way  was  heavily  shaded,  and  few  of  the 
passers-by  recognized  them  or  noted  her  worldly 
dress.  They  ascended  the  steps  by  the  dam, 
and  paused  at  the  beginning  of  the  promenade; 
for  before  them  spread  the  Beechcroft  Miracle, 
softened  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills  to  a  mystery, 
and  crowned  with  a  wonderful  rose  and  gold 
sky. 

They  paused  again  within  the  temple.  It  was 
dark  in  there,  but  the  faint  evening  light  that 
floated  in  through  the  tall  windows  served  to 
suggest  the  lofty  vaulting  of  the  roof.  She  fol 
lowed  him  down  the  aisle.  She  could  just  make 
out  the  bulky  outlines  of  his  figure.  At  the  side 
of  the  platform  she  stumbled,  and  he  turned  and 
felt  for  her  hand ;  then,  leading  her,  he  mounted 
the  steps,  crossed  the  platform  and  the  robing 
room  behind  it,  with  his  free  hand  unlocked  a 
door,  and  led  her  forward.  They  stopped  and 
she  made  an  effort  to  withdraw  her  hand,  but 
his  hold  tightened.  His  hand  was  trembling 
and  she  could  hear  him  breathing  heavily.  Sud 
denly  she  was  frightened.  She  made  another 
effort  to  release  her  hand.  Then  she  felt  that 
he  was  drawing  close  to  her,  and  she  sprang  back 
and  struggled  with  him. 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  263 

"Wait  —  Cynthia,"  she  heard  him  saying; 
but  she  struggled  the  harder.  He  was  hurting 
her  now.  And  then  his  grip  relaxed,  and  she 
staggered  back  a  little  way,  against  a  wall,  and 
leaned  there  catching  her  breath,  all  aghast  at 
what  he  had  done. 

There  they  stood,  neither  seeing  the  other, 
neither  speaking.  Finally  she  heard  the  door 
close.  He  was  moving  about  apparently  groping 
for  something.  Then  came  the  click  of  a  key, 
the  room  was  flooded  with  light,  and  she  was 
closing  and  opening  her  blinded  eyes  and  shading 
them  with  her  trembling  hand.  She  did  not  at 
first  take  in  the  details  of  this  comfortably  fur 
nished,  windowless  room,  with  its  leather  chairs, 
its  desk  and  table,  its  steel  safe  in  a  corner,  for 
before  her  stood  Herman  Stein. 

It  was  not  Herman  Stein  the  prophet;  some 
thing  had  gone  from  him,  something  that  seemed 
to  mark  the  difference  between  triumph  and  de 
feat.  This  was  a  beaten  man.  The  story  of 
a  lost  battle  was  written  in  every  line  of  the  solid 
face,  in  the  set  of  the  broad  shoulders.  It  was 
not  that  he  had  been  unfair  with  her;  he  had 
been  unfair  with  other  women,  and  had  left  them 
coldly  behind  as  he  climbed;  it  was  that  the 


264  Comrade  John 

hounds  had  slipped  their  leash  and  had  got  away 
from  his  controlling  whip.  His  self-mastery 
had  failed  him.  He  knew  it.  He  knew  that  he 
had  lost  his  grip.  And  he  knew  that  that  grip 
was  all  he  had. 

He  was  looking  at  her  —  not  squarely,  but 
with  eyes  that  told  a  furtive  story.  Her  breath 
was  coming  back,  and  with  it  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  she  who  commanded  the  situation.  No 
matter  what  he  might  say  or  do,  no  matter  even 
if  he  tried  to  keep  her  here,  she  now  saw  through 
the  mask,  and  he  knew  that  she  saw.  He  was 
waiting,  now,  for  her  to  speak.  There  was  noth 
ing  that  he  could  say. 

"I  think — "  her  voice  was  less  steady  than 
she  had  expected  —  "I  think  you  had  better  open 
the  door  and  —  let  me  go." 

His  eyes  wandered  away,  then  back. 

"Will  you  please  open  the  door?" 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "You  see  what  has 
happened  to  me  —  how  you  have  shaken  me. 
Has  it  occurred  to  you  to  be  a  little  sorry  for  me 
—  Cynthia?" 

"I  have  asked  you  to  let  me  go." 

"And  I  can't  do  it  —  I  can't.  I  am  in  trouble. 
My  position  is  attacked  —  my  credit  is  threatened 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  265 

—  it  may  be  that  to-morrow  I  shall  be  just  another 
exploded  prophet.  In  the  face  of  all  this  I 
can  think  only  of  you.  Everything  else  fades 
when  I  think  of  you.  I  want  only  to  be  with  you, 
to  try  to  make  you  love  me."  She  looked  away 
and  shivered  at  this.  "I  can  make  you  love  me. 
You  don't  know  me  yet,  Cynthia.  They  may  call 
me  a  prophet  —  they  may  call  me  a  fraud  — 
whatever  they  like.  They  are  wrong."  He 
was  little  by  little  regaining  a  part  of  his  self- 
command.  "They  are  wrong,  Cynthia.  I  am 
not  a  fraud  —  I  am  not  a  prophet  —  I  am  a 
man;  and  I  can  make  you  love  me.  I  can't 
stay  here  now.  If  I  am  to  save  anything  I  must 
go  down  there.  But  I  will  be  back  soon — I  want 
you  to  wait  for  me  here.  We  are  not  through  yet. 
I  won't  let  you  go  until  at  least  you  know  me." 
What  was  the  source  of  this  dogged  look  on 
his  face,  of  this  dogged  note  in  his  voice !  It 
was  unlike  anything  she  had  ever  seen  in  him. 
It  was  not  his  old  mastery,  but  neither  was  it 
the  abasement  that  had  immediately  followed 
his  loss  of  that  mastery.  He  was  thinking  of 
something.  There  was  another  string  to  his 
bow,  and  he  had  pulled  himself  together  with  the 
deliberate  purpose  of  employing  it.  And  while 


266  Comrade  John 

she  looked  at  him,  her  heart  sank.  She  reached 
out  to  the  back  of  a  chair  and  steadied  herself. 

"Mr.  Stein,"  her  mouth  was  dry;  she  moist 
ened  her  lips,  "will  you  please  let  me  go?" 

He  was  still  looking  at  her,  the  man  Stein. 
Then,  suddenly,  with  a  mechanical  sort  of  deter 
mination,  he  opened  the  door  and  started  out. 
She  rushed  after  and  got  her  arm  through  before 
he  could  close  it,  and  clutched  the  outer  knob. 

"Let  go,  Cynthia,"  he  said.  "You  will  hurt 
your  arm."  And  he  waited,  holding  the  door 
firmly  while  she  struggled  to  open  it. 

She  tried  to  call  out,  but  her  voice  failed  her. 

"Let  go,  Cynthia,"  he  said  again.  Suddenly 
he  reached  down,  worked  her  ringers  loose  from 
the  knob,  pushed  her  back  into  the  room,  closed 
the  door,  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  And 
then,  for  a  moment,  he  stood  motionless.  She 
was  working  at  the  knob  from  the  inside.  There 
was  something  uncanny  in  the  rattling,  clicking 
noise,  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  gloomy 
silence  of  the  temple.  He  had  lost  utterly. 
And  how  easily  he  might  have  won,  if  only  he 
could  have  kept  his  head,  if  only  he  could  have 
continued  to  play  the  game.  She  might  be  wait 
ing  there  now,  willingly,  for  her  prophet  to  return. 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  267 

Then  Herman  Stein's  teeth  came  doggedly 
together.  Yes,  he  had  still  another  string  to  his 
bow.  There  was  a  chance  that  it  might  succeed. 
He  had  not  used  it  of  late  years,  —  perhaps  he 
had  lost  his  old  facility  at  it,  —  but  it  had  worked 
before.  It  would  work  again.  It  must  work 
again.  He  walked  slowly  through  the  robing 
room  to  the  platform  —  and  paused  there.  The 
spacious  temple  —  dark,  cool,  restful  —  soared 
above  and  about  him.  It  was  his  temple.  It 
Had  marked  his  triumph.  It  steadied  him  now. 
He  was  glad  of  that.  He  needed  steadying. 
After  a  moment  he  felt  his  way  heavily  down 
the  steps,  and  let  himself  out  of  the  building  by 
the  small  side  door. 

The  lower  valley  was  astir.  Men,  and  women 
as  well,  were  moving  about  from  house  to  house. 
It  was  not  a  placid  Beechcroft  now.  The  dis 
ciples  were  no  longer  a  humble  community,  obe 
dient,  characterless;  there  were  leaders  among 
them.  The  air  was  electric  with  rumors  and 
questionings;*  startled,  bewildered  minds  were 
communicating  in  some  new,  wireless  way. 
Dismay  and  irresolution  were  resolving  into  half- 
formed  purpose.  Far  away  down  the  road,  below 


268  Comrade  John 

the  last  house  in  the  settlement,  some  sort  of  a 
conflict  was  taking  place,  and  men  with  strange 
hoarse  voices,  of  an  unmistakable  city  timbre, 
were  shouting. 

A  straggling  band  of  disciples  came  hurrying 
up  the  road,  thirty  —  forty  —  fifty  of  them. 
Stein  hid  in  the  brush  and  let  them  surge 
by  him.  They  were  talking  in  excited  voices, 
and  out  of  the  confused  clamor  emerged 
his  own  name,  not  once  but  repeatedly. 

He  took  to  the  back  trails  after  this,  hurrying 
to  his  house.  He  crossed  the  lawn  and  mounted 
the  steps.  There  were  lights  within.  Two 
men  stopped  him  at  the  door,  roughish  men, 
from  the  outside  world,  with  broad  shoulders 
and  bearded  faces. 

"Hold  on  there,"  said  one,  shortly,  "you  can't 
go  in." 

His  comrade  touched  his  arm.  "It's  the  boss," 
he  said. 

"Oh,  you're  Mr.  Stein,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  I'm  Mr.  Stein.  Who  are  you?  What 
do  you  mean  by  this?" 

"This  means  that  the  sheriff  has  seized  your 
property,  Mr.  Stein.  You  can  go  in  if  you  like, 
but  I  warn  you  that  we  may  have  to  search  you 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  269 

when  you  come  out.  That's  our  orders.  We're 
here  to  see  that  nothing  is  carried  off  the 
place." 

"But  you  have  no  right  yourself  to  enter," 
cried  Stein. 

"Perhaps  not.  But  you'd  better  not  try  to 
bring  anything  out  without  a  court  order." 

Stein  turned  and  descended  the  steps.  Stand 
ing  a  little  way  off  on  the  lawn,  were  five  or  six 
men  in  tunics,  all  looking  his  way.  As  he  ap 
proached,  he  made  out  the  diagonal  band  of  the 
Beechcroft  guards  across  the  breast  of  each. 
He  peered  narrowly  at  them,  and  was  relieved 
by  their  manner. 

"We're  waiting  for  your  orders,  Mr.  Stein," 
said  one,  stepping  forward.  "We  didn't  know 
just  what  we  ought  to  do." 

Stein  drew  a  long  breath.  "Where  are  the 
rest  of  the  guards?"  he  asked. 

They  looked  at  one  another.  "I'm  afraid," 
said  the  spokesman,  after  a  brief  pause,  "that 
they  aren't  with  us.  Some  of  them  got  excited, 
and  ran  with  the  crowd."  He  hesitated,  then 
added  eagerly,  "But  a  few  of  the  boys  are  down 
yonder  driving  off  the  newsboys.  They'll  be 
back  —  and  we  can  trust  them." 


270  Comrade  John 

Stein  was  thinking  rapidly.  What  was  it 
that  had  stirred  all  Beechcroft  to  this  pitch? 
Certainly  not  the  exposure.  That  might  wreck 
his  credit,  but  it  could  hardly  take  these  fools 
away  from  him  while  they  were  still  here  under 
his  influence.  It  hardly  seemed  that  even  the 
presence  of  the  court  officers  could  accomplish 
that.  No,  it  was  something  else,  it  was  some 
unexpected  spark  that  had  found  lodgment  in 
the  tinder  of  their  brains. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  brusquely,  "what  has 
happened?" 

Again  they  looked  at  one  another.  "  Why, 
it's  like  this,  Mr.  Stein.  Everything  seemed  to 
come  at  once.  The  newsboys  got  in  with  their 
papers,  and  the  deputies  came  and  seized  your 
place  here,  and  Mr.  Hobbema's,  and  right  on  top 
of  that  somebody  remembered  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hobbema  had  gone  away  this  afternoon,  bag  and 
baggage.  And  they  want  to  know  what  —  well, 
what  has  become  of  all  the  money  they've  turned 
in  here.  We've  tried  to  straighten  it  out,  but  they 
act  like  crazy  people."  The  spokesman  passed 
his  hand  across  his  eyes.  "It's  all  took  place  so 
quick  like,  Mr.  Stein,  that  I  guess  we  don't  any 
of  us  quite  understand  it.  Some  of  them  have 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World          271 

gone  down  to  the  station.  They  said  they'd  see 
that  you  or  Comrade  John  didn't  get  away  like 
Mr.  Hobbema." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  a  light 
flashed  into  Stein's  eyes,  and  he  spoke  quickly 
and  clearly.  "You,"  he  pointed  at  the  spokes 
man,  "go  to  those  people  and  tell  them  that 
I  am  here  to  look  after  them,  and  that  I  propose 
to  stay  here.  Tell  them  that  I  must  go  up  to 
the  temple,  but  that  I  will  be  back  shortly.  But 
tell  them  they  are  right  about  Comrade  John. 
Don't  let  them  touch  him,  or  harm  him  in  any 
way,  but  see  that  he  doesn't  leave  the  valley  until 
he  has  accounted  to  me.  Now  I  want  the  others 
of  you  to  go  to  the  temple  —  at  once.  Take 
possession  inside,  four  of  you  at  the  front  doors, 
one  at  the  side  door.  Don't  let  anybody  enter, 
—  the  sheriff,  Comrade  John,  anybody.  Be 
as  gentle  as  you  can,  but  keep  everybody  out, 
whatever  happens  !  Remember  this ;  the  sheriff's 
men  have  no  authority  to  enter;  they  can  only 
guard  outside  to  see  that  nothing  is  removed. 
Keep  that  clear  in  your  mind.  If  they  set  guards 
outside  the  doors,  you  will  be  guarding  inside 
the  doors.  And  don't  let  Comrade  John  get  in! 
Watch  him!" 


272  Comrade  John 

They  waited  only  long  enough  to  make  sure 
that  he  had  finished,  then  they  darted  off  to 
obey  him.  Stein  looked  after  them,  then  paced 
the  lawn.  What  was  that  about  Hobbema's 
place?  Oh,  yes,  the  sheriff  had  seized  it.  And 
most  of  the  money  was  there !  He  clenched  his 
fists  as  he  walked.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  glanced 
about  him  and  up  at  the  officers  on  the  porch, 
then  hurried  off,  through  the  darkest  of  the  shad 
ows,  to  Hobbema's  house.  It  was  true.  An 
officer  was  sitting  on  the  top  step  of  the  veranda ; 
another  was  standing  in  the  rear.  He  stood  under 
a  tree  at  the  roadside,  this  man  Stein,  and  watched 
them.  It  was  a  clean  job.  Everything  had  been 
foreseen.  Everything  of  the  slightest  value  to  him 
in  this  Beechcroft  of  his  —  books,  documents,  let 
ters,  cash  —  had  been  taken  from  him  at  a  stroke. 
There  was  nothing  personal  in  evidence,  nothing 
vindictive.  There  was  no  one  he  could  strike; 
there  was  no  one  he  could  even  talk  to.  The  cold 
hand  of  the  law  was  clapped  on  Beechcroft,  that 
was  all;  and  Herman  Stein,  lurking  like  a  fugi 
tive  in  Jthe  shadows  at  the  roadside,  felt  the  chill 
of  it  on  his  heart. 

He  heard  light  footsteps,  and  started.  A  half- 
grown  boy  slipped  up  to  him.  "Paper,  Mister, 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  273 

—  paper?"  came  a  hoarse  whisper,  "all  about 
Stein  a  fraud!" 

Stein  looked  down  at  the  boy  with  a  face  that 
was  working  savagely  behind  its  veil  of  darkness. 
Then  he  snatched  the  bundles  of  papers  from 
him,  and  with  a  "Damn  you  —  take  that!" 
struck  him  an  ugly  blow  in  the  face.  The  boy 
staggered  back,  caught  his  balance,  turned  and 
ran  swiftly  and  silently  down  the  road. 

Stein  remained  for  a  moment  standing  in  his 
tracks.  His  work  was  still  to  do,  the  fight 
for  his  throne  and  his  followers  still  to  be  fought. 
It  had  been  to  come  out  and  fight  that  he  had  left 
Cynthia  in  the  steel  room.  But  the  thought  of 
her  there,  still  unmastered,  obsessed  him.  Cynthia 
first.  She  must  be  his  before  he  could  strike  a 
blow  for  the  others.  When  she  was  safely  won, 
then  he  could  come  out  and  show  himself  a  man 
before  these  fools  who  yesterday  had  worshipped 
him.  He  turned  abruptly  and  strode  back  to  the 
temple.  As  he  had  half  expected,  there  were 
deputies  here,  too.  They  stood  outside  the  big 
open  front  doors.  But  from  the  corner  of  the 
building  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  tunic 
just  within.  At  the  side  door  he  found  a  soli 
tary  deputy,  who  accosted  him  with  a  — 


274  Comrade  John 

"Stop!    You  can't  get  in  here." 

Stein  slipped  his  key  into  the  lock.  "I  can 
and  will,"  he  said. 

The  deputy  yielded  to  his  authoritative  per 
sonality.  "Very  well,"  he  replied.  "I  suppose 
you're  Mr.  Stein.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  this: 
We  don't  like  the  looks  of  those  guards  of  yours 
around  here.  If  they  try  to  interfere  with  us, 
there'll  be  trouble." 

"They  won't  make  trouble  unless  you  exceed 
your  authority,"  said  Stein  shortly,  "as  you  tried 
to  do  just  now.  They  know  their  business." 
And  with  that  he  entered  the  temple  and  locked 
the  door  after  him. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  voices  outside  John 
Chance's  house,  and  a  loud  knock  at  his  door. 
He  opened  it.  Three  men  stood  there,  evidently 
spokesmen  for  the  excited  rabble  that  was  clus 
tered  about  the  steps.  One  of  them  wore  the 
uniform  of  the  guards. 

"Well,"  said  Chance,  shortly,  "what  is  it? 
What  do  you  want?" 

It  was  the  guard  who  replied.  "We  want  to 
know  what  you  plan  doing  next." 

"That's  a  strange  question." 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  275 

"No,  sir,  not  strange.  We  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  you're  not  to  leave  the  valley  until 
we're  ready  to  let  you.  You  may  as  well  know 
that  you'll  be  watched." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it !  Well,  then,  watch  me  all 
you  like." 

Chance  went  in  and  shut  the  door.  But  he 
waited  only  until  the  crowd  had  straggled  away 
whence  it  came.  If  things  had  come  to  this  pass, 
it  was  time  to  act.  No  matter  what  Cynthia 
might  feel  or  think,  no  matter  what  she  might 
say,  it  was  time  to  get  her  away.  And  so,  with 
a  mind  that  was  curiously  cold  and  clear,  with 
his  love,  his  pride,  his  sense  of  degradation  thrust 
fiercely  behind  him,  he  went  straight  to  the  cottage 
among  the  pines.  And  two  men  followed  him  at 
a  distance. 

She  was  not  at  home.  Her  Aunt  Augusta 
met  him  at  the  door  and  in  her  fluttering  futile 
way  told  him  that  much.  Where  was  she? 
Somewhere  with  Mr.  Stein,  —  at  least,  she  had 
gone  out  with  him  at  early  twilight,  wearing  one 
of  her  city  dresses,  even  wearing  a  hat.  Chance 
tried  Stem's  house,  but  was  convinced,  at  a  glance, 
that  she  was  not  there.  All  this  was  baffling. 
He  walked  briskly  down  to  the  road,  and  snapped 


276  Comrade  John 

his  fingers  meditatively.  Comrade  Ellen  —  she 
could  help !  He  could  ask  her,  anyway.  And 
glancing  back  at  the  two  shadows  behind  him, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  she  could  help  in  more 
ways  than  one.  "I  can't  give  my  parole  to  those 
blockheads,"  he  thought,  "for  I  might  have  to 
break  it  any  minute." 

He  found  Comrade  Ellen  the  one  apathetic 
person  he  had  seen  this  night  at  Beechcroft. 
She  came  to  the  door  with  a  half-completed 
basket  in  her  hand  and  with  a  long  string  of 
raffia  coiled  around  her  shoulders. 

He  entered.  She  closed  the  door  and  leaned 
against  it.  "You  need  me,"  she  said.  "What 
am  I  to  do?" 

"  Go  to  her  house  and  wait  there  until  she  comes. 
Then  stay  with  her.  Don't  let  him  be  with 
her  alone." 

Ellen  looked  straight  at  him,  and  voiced  the 
question  that  was  in  his  own  mind :  — 

"Will  she  come?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  am  trying  to  find  her.  I 
shall  feel  easier  if  you  are  there.  But  wait  — 
five  minutes.  Draw  down  your  shades,  please, 
—  all  of  them,  so  that  no  one  can  see  in.  Is  there 
a  light  in  your  kitchen?" 


Cynthia  Discovers  the  World  277 

"Yes." 

"Put  it  out,  please." 

She  did  so;  returning  to  the  living  room  she 
encountered  him  in  the  dark  passage.  "Let 
me  out  at  the  back,"  he  said,  "very  quietly. 
Careful  about  making  a  noise  with  the  door. 
Now,  let  me  look  around — " 

"Wait,"  she  whispered.  "Where  are  you 
going?" 

"To  the  old  camp  on  the  mountain.  My  men 
are  there,  packing  up.  I  need  them." 

Then  he  was  off,  slipping  out  among  the  weeds 
and  undergrowth  like  an  Indian,  and  down  the 
slope  to  the  brook,  and  across  the  brook,  and  up 
the  farther  bank,  scrambling  through  brier 
patches,  stumbling  over  logs  —  to  the  other  road. 

Ellen  looked  after  him  until  his  dark  shape 
had  blended  with  the  night.  Then  she  softly 
closed  the  door  and  returned  to  the  living  room. 
Her  little  house  was  empty  again. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE   MAN  AT  THE   DOOR 

CYNTHIA  was  sitting  in  a  big  leather  chair  beside 
the  roll-top  desk  in  the  steel  room.  This  was  a 
farther  corner  of  the  room,  twenty  feet  or  more 
from  the  door.  The  desk  was  closed.  The 
centre  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  table  which 
was  six  or  eight  feet  long,  and  was  mounted  on 
casters.  At  one  side  of  the  table,  midway  down 
the  room  from  the  desk,  was  a  high-backed  mis 
sion  chair.  A  safe  stood  beside  the  desk  and 
immediately  beyond  the  safe  was  a  stationary 
wash-bowl  with  running  water.  From  the  ceiling 
an  insulated  wire  hung  down  and  lay  in  a  loose 
coil  about  the  drop  light  on  the  table. 

When  Stein  opened  the  door,  entered,  closed 
and  locked  it  after  him,  and  pocketed  the  key, 
she  merely  turned  her  eyes  in  his  direction.  But 
if  her  manner  suggested  indifference,  what  she 
saw  in  his  face  sent  a  tremor  along  her  nerves. 
278 


The  Man  at  the  Door 


279 


He  was  not  dogged  now.     Some  part  had  returned 

of  the  mastery  which  had  made  him  formidable. 

If  he  was  at  bay,  if  the  prophet  game  had  been 

layed  and  lost,  the  man  had  no  notion  of  sur- 

ndering. 

He  came  deliberately  around  the  table  and 
stood  before  her.  She  closed  her  eyes. 

"Cynthia,"  he  said,  "look  at  me." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  regained 
control  of  his  voice.  It  was  low,  cool,  compelling. 
I  He  evidently  had  a  definite  plan  in  'mind  which 
ihe  meant  to  carry  out.  She  kept  her  eyes  shut, 
and  her  fingers  gripped  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  she  became  con 
scious  that  he  was  bending  over  her.  Then  she 
felt  a  light,  firm  touch  on  her  forehead  and  eye 
lids,  and  shrank  back  into  the  corner  of  the  chair. 
I  But  she  could  not  get  away  from  the  touch  of 
those  fingers.  She  moved  her  head  from  side 
to  side ;  the  fingers  moved  with  her. 

"Mr.    Stein!"   she   cried,    "take   your   hands 

r  !" 

His  only  reply  was  a  gentle  pressure  on  her 
Itemples.  She  caught  his  wrists  and  tried  to  pull 
I  them  away,  but  she  could  not  move  them  at  all. 
)he  could  hear  his  calm,  regular  breathing. 


280  Comrade  John 

This  was  not  the  broken  man  who  had  turned 
the  key  on  her  an  hour  earlier.  This  was  an 
inexorable,  irresistible  personality.  Thoroughly 
frightened,  still  gripping  his  wrists,  she  opened 
her  eyes.  There  his  face  was,  a  little  above  hers, 
but  close  to  it,  and  his  eyes  were  looking  straight 
into  hers.  And  once  she  had  permitted  him  to 
fix  his  eyes  on  hers  she  found  it  difficult  to  turn 
away  or  to  shut  her  eyes.  The  outlines  of  his 
head  blurred  and  wavered.  He  seemed  to  grow 
bigger  and  farther  away,  but  his  bright,  steady 
eyes  remained  as  a  focal  point  for  hers,  until  they 
became  the  only  real  things  in  the  room. 

So  far  this  was  satisfactory  to  Stein.  But  the 
task  he  had  set  himself  was  not  an  easy  one,  and 
he  went  about  it  with  deliberate  method.  Very 
slowly,  steadily  holding  her  gaze,  he  drew  back 
his  hands,  took  a  firm  hold  of  hers,  and  lowered 
them  to  the  arms  of  the  chair.  With  the  same 
slow,  soothing  motion  he  raised  his  own  hands 
again,  placed  his  thumbs  upon  her  forehead,  his 
forefingers  on  her  temples,  and,  accompanying 
the  motion  with  a  sudden  pressure,  brought  his 
eyes  an  inch  closer  to  hers,  staring  straight  into 
her  pupils,  and  through  them.  Everything  was 
slipping  away  from  her  now.  He  was  looking 


The  Man  at  the  Door  281 

into  her  mind.  He  knew  what  thoughts  were 
there.  He  was  forcing  himself,  steadily,  little 
little,  into  those  thoughts.  Her  utmost  strug 
gling  to  resist  him  resulted  in  nothing  more  than 
a  trembling  of  the  eyelids  while  she  hung  on  that 
overmastering  gaze.  Then,  accompanying  the 
sound  of  his  voice  with  a  barely  perceptible 
stroking  motion  on  her  temples,  he  began  to  talk. 
And  in  his  voice,  as  in  the  movement  of  his  fingers, 
there  was  a  gentle,  monotonous  rhythm.  It  was 
ike  a  lullaby.  Those  big,  luminous  eyes  filled 
the  slumbering  mind. 

"Your  right  hand  has  become  very  heavy, 
Cynthia,"  he  was  saying.  "It  is  like  lead.  You 
can't  lift  it.  Try  — try  — you  can't  lift  a  rin 
ger."  He  was  watching  her  intently.  He  saw 
;he  muscles  of  her  upper  arm  and  shoulder 
straining  while  the  hand  lay  passive  on  the  chair 
arm.  This  was  satisfactory,  so  far.  But  before 
he  dared  venture  on  the  very  difficult  experiment 
which  was  in  his  mind,  he  must  get  perfect  con 
trol,  not  only  of  the  muscles,  but  also  of  her  five 
senses,  carefully,  one  by  one. 

"Your  hand  is  growing  lighter,  Cynthia. 
Now  it  is  light  as  air.  You  can't  hold  it  down. 
See !  It  rises  —  now  it  is  heavier  again  and  it 


282  Comrade  John 

falls.  But  what  makes  it  so  cold?  It  is  cold. 
It  grows  colder  —  like  ice  —  it  hurts  you  —  now 
it  is  growing  warmer  —  better  —  much  better  — 
now  it  is  very  comfortable."  He  carefully  noted 
the  little  sigh  of  relief  that  passed  her  lips.  He 
was  succeeding;  there  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
He  took  off  her  hat  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  Her 
beautiful  face,  under  the  massing,  waving,  stray 
ing  charm  of  her  hair,  was  passive  beneath  his 
hands.  Her  eyes,  opened  to  their  full  width, 
reflected  every  slightest  motion  of  his.  He  tested 
it;  he  moved  a  little  to  one  side;  her  eyes  fol 
lowed  his  automatically,  without  perceptible 
wavering  of  the  lids.  He  tried  a  more  difficult 
test,  quietly  removing  his  hands  from  her  temples 
and  deliberately  turning  his  back  on  her  and 
looking  at  the  clock  on  the  table.  For  one  full 
minute  —  a  very  long  minute  —  he  waited  before 
he  turned.  But  her  eyes  had  not  changed; 
they  were  still  fixed  on  him. 

He  unlocked  the  desk,  threw  back  the  top,  and 
picked  up  an  empty  glass  ink-well.  "You  do 
not  feel  well,  Cynthia,"  he  said.  "Your  head 
aches."  Her  brows  contracted  at  this.  "Take 
these  smelling  salts,  Cynthia.  They  will  relieve 
your  headache.  When  you  have  smelled  them 


The  Man  at  the  Door  283 

you  will  feel  better."  She  reached  obediently 
for  the  ink-well  and  sniffed  at  it,  and  almost  at 
once  her  brows  relaxed  again. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on.  His  voice  neither  rose 
nor  hastened.  It  ran  on  in  the  same  soothing 
monotone.  "Yes,  you  feel  better  —  your  head 
does  not  ache  any  more.  But  wait !  —  Listen, 
Cynthia  —  the  temple  bell  is  ringing.  It  is  beau 
tiful.  Listen!" 

She  sat  upright,  her  lips  parted  a  little;  and 
an  expression  of  childlike  pleasure  came  into  her 
face. 

So  far,  so  good.  The  only  really  difficult  test 
remaining  was  that  of  vision.  With  that  same 
sudden  fixity  of  gaze  he  had  at  first  employed, 
he  gave  an  abrupt  start  and  bent  down  over  her, 
and  looked  into  her  eyes.  The  response  was 
better  now.  She  started,  too,  as  if  the  nerves 
and  muscles  of  her  body  were  physically  controlled 
by  his  mind.  After  a  moment  he  moved  aside, 
and  without  taking  his  eyes  from  hers,  said :  — 

"Mr.  Hobbema  is  standing  just  in  front  of  you. 
You  can  see  him  plainly.  He  is  speaking  to  you. 
Say  'How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hobbema.'" 

Stein  reached  back  and  gripped  the  edge  of  the 
table.  The  veins  stood  out  on  the  back  of  his 


284  Comrade  John 

hand  and  there  was  sweat  on  his  forehead.  His 
frame  seemed  to  be  drawn  compactly  together, 
as  if  for  a  mighty  effort.  For  she  was  looking 
at  him,  not  at  the  imaginary  Hobbema. 

Then  he  said  again,  in  a  cold,  even  voice : 
"Mr.  Hobbema  is  standing  just  in  front  of  you. 
Speak  to  him,  Cynthia." 

She  slowly  turned,  and  a  look  of  recognition 
came  into  her  face.  "How  do  you  do,"  she 
breathed.  Then  she  settled  back  in  the  chair, 
and  again  rested  her  eyes  on  his. 

Stein  stood  erect,  looked  straight  down  at  her, 
and  drew  in  one  deep  breath  after  another,  until 
his  arms  hung  easily  at  his  sides  and  his  head  was 
clear  and  cool.  It  had  really  been  absurdly  easy. 
And  the  rest  of  it  should  be  still  easier,  for  there 
was  need  for  little  more  than  a  clear  wit  and 
determined  action.  As  he  looked  at  her  —  lean 
ing  back  in  the  chair,  more  than  ever  bewildering 
now  that  she  seemed  little  more  than  a  part  of 
his  mental  being,  he  could  not  realize  that  at 
last,  even  if  he  could  not  have  her  heart,  he  was 
to  have  the  shell  of  her.  It  was,  perhaps,  just 
as  well  that  he  could  not  realize  it.  Once  this 
evening  he  had  lost  his  self-control,  and  he  had 
since  been  fighting  the  fight  of  his  life  to  regain 


The  Man  at  the  Door  285 

the  lost  ground.  There  would  be  time  enough 
to  look  at  her  later  on. 

He  took  from  a  compartment  in  the  safe  several 
bundles  of  currency  and  counted  them.  The 
sum  was  not  so  large  as  he  had  hoped,  but  it 
would  have  to  sustain  them  until  he  could  work 
out  a  new  plan  of  life  in  some  other  corner  of 
the  world.  He  made  up  the  bills  into  a  number 
of  small  piles,  wrapped  about  each  a  strip  of 
paper  and  gummed  it  with  mucilage;  then  he 
gave  it  all  to  Cynthia. 

"This  money  is  yours,  Cynthia,"  he  said. 
"There  are  men  at  the  door  who  would  take  it 
away  from  you  if  they  knew  you  had  it.  You 
must  hide  it  from  them.  Hide  it  in  your  dress." 
And  he  walked  across  the  room  while  she  obeyed. 

He  next  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  directly 
facing  her  for  the  final  test  of  his  power.  "Cyn 
thia,"  he  said,  "the  back  of  your  chair  is  too  warm 
to  be  comfortable.  Sit  up  straight,  and  you  will 
feel  better."  And  when  she  had  obeyed,  he 
leaned  forward,  placed  his  ringer  tips  again  on 
her  forehead  and  temples,  and  fixed  her  eyes 
again  on  his  with  that  same  quick  little  jerk  of 
his  own,  as  if  he  were  establishing  some  sort  of 
physical  communication  between  her  eyes  and  his. 


286  Comrade  John 

"What  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now,  Cynthia," 
he  said,  "is  the  thing  you  want  most  to  know." 
He  was  speaking  very  slowly,  enunciating  each 
syllable  with  exaggerated  distinctness.  "You 
are  not  happy  in  this  room.  You  have  been  here 
a  long  time.  The  air  is  close  and  heavy.  It 
oppresses  you.  You  would  like  to  be  out  in  the 
open  air  —  among  the  trees  —  by  the  lake  — • 
where  you  can  feel  the  fresh  night  breeze  — 
where  you  can  see  the  stars  in  the  sky.  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  how  you  can  manage  it.  You 
must  listen  very  closely,  because  there  are  rough 
men  in  this  building  who  would  like  to  take  your 
money  away  from  you  and  confine  you  here. 
You  must  do  exactly  what  I  tell  you  to  do.  Listen, 
Cynthia.  I  am  going  away  first.  I  will  slip  out 
at  the  side  door  of  the  temple.  You  will  stay 
here  alone,  and  keep  very  quiet  and  let  nobody 
know  that  you  are  here.  Very  soon  I  shall  tele 
phone  you."  He  reached  across  to  the  desk  and 
drew  out  the  instrument  to  where  she  could  see 
it.  "When  you  hear  the  telephone  bell  ring, 
you  will  be  awake.  He  bent  forward,  looking 
even  more  intently  at  her.  "Remember  that, 
Cynthia.  Keep  it  clearly  in  your  mind.  When 
the  telephone  bell  rings,  you  will  be  awake  — 


The  Man  at  the  Door  287 

you  will  be  yourself.  And  then  you  will  answer 
the  telephone  and  you  will  act  exactly  as  I  tell 
you  then.  You  will  listen  to  the  voice  in  the 
telephone,  and  do  exactly  what  that  voice  tells 
you  to  do.  If  you  wish  to  be  free,  if  you  wish  to 
be  happy,  you  will  obey  the  voice  in  the  telephone. 
And  remember  —  fix  it  in  your  mind  —  when  the 
telephone  bell  rings,  you  will  be  yourself." 

He  got  to  his  feet,  and  walked  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 
He  could  not  wholly  control  the  elation  that  was 
sweeping  over  him  like  a  wave,  and  so  he  allowed 
himself  a  moment  of  relaxation.  The  plan  would 
work.  He  could  change  his  clothes  in  the  robing 
room.  The  deputy  who  would  see  him  pass  out 
at  the  side  door  —  who  would,  perhaps,  go  so 
far  as  to  search  his  person  —  would  not  be  likely 
to  see  Cynthia  go  out  at  the  front.  And  what  a 
lucky  chance  it  was  that  he  had  found  her  in  city 
dress !  Even  if  there  should  happen  to  be  com 
munication  between  the  two  sets  of  watchers, 
they  would  hardly  detain  her.  She  would  be  free 
to  go  where  she  willed  —  or  where  he  willed. 
And  by  that  time  he  would  be  out  of  the  way. 
They  could  not  trace  his  movements,  at  night, 
on  that  wooded  hillside.  He  would  meet  her 


288  Comrade  John 

at  the  roadside,  and  take  her  over  the  ridge  to  the 
railroad.  It  might  be  best  to  catch  a  train  going 
west,  in  order  not  to  risk  passing  the  angry 
watchers  at  the  town  below,  and  to  connect  at 
the  western  end  of  the  branch  railroad  with  one 
of  the  lines  that  entered  New  York  by  another 
route.  He  paced  slowly  back  and  forth  by  the 
door.  He  would  be  himself  in  a  moment.  It 
was  important  that  he  steady  himself  now,  because 
it  was  advisable,  before  leaving  her  alone,  that 
he  carry  her  still  farther  into  her  sleep  in  order 
that  all  possible  memory  of  the  post-hypnotic 
suggestion  he  had  employed  be  effaced  from  her 
mind. 

And  then,  without  an  instant  of  warning,  Stein's 
house  of  cards  fell,  a  ruin,  to  the  ground.  He 
was  still  walking  the  floor,  separated  from  her 
by  the  length  of  the  room  and  by  the  long  table. 
She  was  lying  back  in  the  big  chair  by  the  desk, 
to  all  appearances  asleep.  No  one  of  the  night 
sounds  that  filled  the  outer  air  entered  this  steel 
chamber.  The  soft  fall  of  Stein's  sandals  on  the 
thick  rug  was  all  that  broke  the  silence. 

Into  this  silence,  with  a  suddenness  that  brought 
Stein  up  short,  startled,  caught  with  all  his  facul 
ties  aback,  like  sails  that  flap  useless  against 


The  Man  at  the  Door  289 

the  masts  —  came  the  sharp,  business-like  ring 
of  the  telephone  call.  And  he  stood  there,  his 
fists  clenched,  his  face  working,  wearing  his 
mind  slowly  around  to  meet  this  new  danger, 
while  Cynthia  gave  a  little  start,  looked  about 
her  with  a  puzzled  expression,  and  then,  in  an 
oddly  matter-of-fact  way  leaned  forward,  drew 
the  instrument  to  the  edge  of  the  desk,  and  held 
the  receiver  to  her  ear. 

"Yes,"  she  gasped,  with  sudden,  half-sup 
pressed  excitement,  "it  is  I  —  it  is  Cynthia!" 

Stein  was  coming  around  the  table. 

"Quick  —  let  me  speak!"  she  cried  into  the 
transmitter. 

Another  moment  and  Stein  stood  over  her. 
He  clapped  his  hand  over  the  transmitter.  And 
while  this  was  taking  place;  while  Cynthia  was 
looking  up  at  him  in  frightened  protest;  while 
Stein,  trembling  with  rage,  was  struggling  to 
check  the  torrent  of  mad  words  that  were  crowd 
ing  and  fighting  on  his  tongue  and  spilling  out 
in  hot  phrases  that  would  have  astounded  her  had 
she  realized  what  he  was  saying, — had  she  not  been 
listening,  with  every  nerve  alert  and  keen  to 
something  else,  —  during  the  very  short  space 
of  time  in  which  all  this  was  taking  place, 
u 


290  Comrade  John 

the  crisp,  vigorous  tones  of  John  Chance's  voice 
were  ringing  in  her  ear  and  carrying  to  her  be 
wildered  mind  a  new  sense  of  confidence  in  her 
self  and  in  him. 

"In  just  ten  minutes,"  the  voice  was  saying  — 
"at  ten-fifteen,  by  the  clock  on  the  table  —  stand 
by  the  door  —  and  be  ready  — " 

The  receiver  was  snatched  from  her  hand ;  the 
telephone  was  thrown  into  the  desk  with  a  clatter 
and  bang,  the  lid  was  rolled  down  over  it  and 
locked  with  a  click.  But  when  Stein  turned  on 
her,  the  chair  she  had  occupied  was  empty. 
Cynthia  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  looking 
at  him  across  the  table  with  something  midway 
between  scorn  and  terror  in  her  eyes. 

He  took  one  step  forward,  then  paused,  and, 
with  fists  clenched  and  breath  coming  hard, 
stared  at  her.  Cynthia's  eyes  shifted  from  him 
to  the  clock  and  back  again.  He  took  another 
step,  but  then,  still  unable  to  meet  the  situation, 
he  turned  away  and  fell  to  walking  back  and 
forth  across  the  end  of  the  room,  while  she, 
keeping  the  table  between  them,  moved  around 
near  the  door.  Now  and  then  he  glanced  up  at 
her,  but  without  speaking.  And  minute  after 
minute  ticked  slowly  by. 


The  Man  at  the  Door  291 

Finally,  he  came  to  the  table,  and  resting 
both  hands  upon  it,  looked  steadily  at  her. 
"  Cynthia,"  he  said  quietly,  " whose  voice  was 
that?" 

She  pressed  her  lips  together,  and  shook  her 
head. 

He  slowly  nodded.  "I  see,"  he  said,  as  if  to 
himself.  Then  his  eyes  searched  her  face.  "I 
want  you  to  come  back  here,  Cynthia,  and  sit 
again  in  this  chair." 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

He  smiled,  slowly,  patiently.  "There  is  really 
no  use  in  resisting  me,  Cynthia,  because  I  can, 
if  I  wish,  put  it  in  such  a  way  that  you  cannot  help 
obeying  me.  I  am  not  putting  it  in  that  way 
because  I  had  rather  you  came  voluntarily." 

Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  clock. 

"Very  well,  then,  Cynthia;  suppose  I  put  it  in 
the  other  way.  I  am  sorry  that  it  is  necessary. 
I  am  sorry  that  you  force  me  to  exert  the  power 
which  has  been  given  me  in  order  that  I  might 
be  a  leader  among  men."  He  was  intently 
studying  her,  watching  for  the  slightest  sign  of 
weakening  in  the  face  which  had  a  little  time  be 
fore  been  passive  but  which  was  now  alert  and 
scornful.  He  saw  her  catch  her  breath,  with  her 


292  Comrade  John 

eyes  fixed  on  the  clock,  and  lean  back  against  the 
wall  directly  by  the  door.  He  walked  around  to 
her,  glancing  himself  at  the  clock  as  he  did  so. 
It  was  ten-fifteen.  He  did  not  know  what  this 
sudden  tension  of  her  young  figure  meant,  but 
it  evidently  meant  something. 

"Are  you  standing  here  by  the  door  because 
you  think  somebody  is  going  to  open  it?"  he 
asked,  keeping  rigidly  to  the  grave,  kindly  tone 
of  voice  which  he  had  deliberately  adopted. 
"If  that  is  what  you  are  thinking  of,  you  are 
mistaken,  because  the  door  is  of  steel  and  there 
is  only  one  key  to  it.  And  that  key  is  in  my 
pocket."  He  stepped  close  to  her,  and  looked 
into  her  eyes.  "Come,  Cynthia,"  he  said. 

She  returned  the  look,  but  without  a  trace 
of  the  response  he  had  looked  for.  He 
reached  out  to  touch  her  forehead,  and  she 
warded  off  his  hands  as  if  he  had  meant  to 
strike  her,  instead  of  merely  touching  her  tem 
ples.  His  jaws  came  together,  and  he  snapped 
his  fingers.  His  eyes  roved  about  the  room, 
uncertainly,  until  they  rested  on  the  drop- 
light,  with  the  loose  wire  coiled  on  the  table 
around  it.  He  suddenly  caught  her  arm  and 
drew  her  across  the  room. 


The  Man  at  the  Door  293 

"Mr.  Stein!"  she  said  breathlessly.  "Stop! 
Don't  you  touch  me!"  She  struggled  and  hung 
back,  but  with  his  set  purpose  and  his  great 
strength  he  seemed  hardly  aware  of  her  resistance. 
He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  made 
her  sit  down  in  the  chair  by  the  desk.  Then, 
gripping  one  of  her  arms,  he  reached  out  for  the 
drop-light,  lifted  it  over,  and  held  it  just  above 
her  eyes  and  a  foot  away  from  them. 

"Look  up,  Cynthia,"  he  said,  more  quietly. 
"Look  up  at  the  light!" 

Her  eyes  were  tightly  shut. 

"Look  up,"  he  said  again. 

A  key  turned  in  the  lock.  Stein  gave  an  ex 
clamation  of  utter  and  bewildered  astonishment. 
And  on  the  instant,  without  a  clear  idea  in  the 
mind  of  either  of  what  was  taking  place,  the 
lamp  was  back  in  its  place  on  the  table  and  Cyn 
thia  was  standing  erect,  with  Stein's  grip  still 
tight  about  her  arm.  For  in  the  open  doorway, 
holding  the  knob  with  one  hand  and  blinking 
good-humoredly  at  the  light,  stood  John  Chance. 
His  clothes  were  torn  and  muddy,  and  from  his 
hips  down  he  was  dripping  wet. 

Chance  had  not  opened  the  door  without  a 
vivid  recognition  of  the  fact  that  an  alternative 


2 94  Comrade  John 

to  his  plan  might  be  forced  upon  him.  What 
he  had  to  accomplish  might  be  easy,  all  over  in 
a  moment,  or  it  might  not.  His  first,  half- 
blinded  glance  into  the  room  sheered  the  easy 
alternative  away;  Cynthia  was  not  standing  by 
the  door,  but  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  Stein's  grip  was  on  her  arm.  He  had,  in 
a  general  way,  been  able  to  foresee  the  problem, 
but  the  solution  of  it  would  depend  on  minute 
details  which  only  the  spur  of  the  moment  could 
supply  him  with. 

The  problem  was  so  simple,  that  was  the 
difficulty  of  it.  Stein  had  hold  of  her  and 
meant  to  keep  her;  he  was  strong  enough  to 
do  it,  and  really  desperate  enough  to  be  dan 
gerous.  It  would  do  no  good,  for  example,  to 
hold  a  pistol  to  his  head,  unless  one  were  fully 
prepared  to  use  it;  Stein,  in  his  present  mood, 
would  rush  a  man  so  armed  as  certainly  as  a  bull 
will  rush  a  picador.  To  make  the  bluff  good, 
to  kill  him  here  in  his  own  castle,  would  be  just 
plain  murder,  as  undesirable  a  solution  of  the 
problem  from  Cynthia's  point  of  view  as  from  his 
own.  For  other  stratagem  the  plainly  furnished, 
windowless,  steel-walled  chamber  seemed  to 
offer  little  room.  But  there  was  no  affectation 


The  Man  at  the  Door  295 

in  the  look  with  which  he  faced  it ;  serene,  eager, 
confident,  it  was  the  true  mirror  of  his  mind. 
At  last,  in  his  goodness,  Allah  had  given  him 
another  job. 

At  sight  of  him  Cynthia  spoke,  her  voice  ex 
pressing  a  sort  of  quiet  desperation.  "I  was  at 
the  door  and  I  waited,  and  then  he  made  me 
come  away." 

"I'm  sorry  I  was  late,"  he  said.  "I  was  de 
tained  a  little.  But  you'll  come  with  me  now 
that  I'm  here,  won't  you?" 

It  was  not,  after  all,  strange,  the  way  the  mere 
sight  of  him  braced  her  and  gave  her  the  begin 
nings  of  hope.  "Anywhere,"  she  answered, 
"if  you  can  make  him  let  me  go." 

She  spoke  of  the  man  whose  grip  was  crushing 
her  arm  as  impersonally  as  if  he  had  been  a  big 
gorilla.  She  did  not  look  at  him  or  take  her  eyes 
away  from  the  man  in  the  doorway. 

Chance  stepped  inside  the  room  and  pulled 
off  his  soft  felt  hat;  his  smile  became  a  little 
derisive.  "He's  going  to  let  you  go,"  he  said; 
"now  —  within  five  minutes."  Then,  suddenly, 
his  tone  became  graver  and  he  looked  at  her 
searchingly.  "You're  sure  you  want  to  go,  what 
ever  it  costs  him?  You  won't  think,  when  he's 


296  Comrade  John 

at  your  mercy,  that  perhaps  he  deserves  another 
chance?  You  won't  interfere  with  the  execu 
tion  when  I've  passed  sentence?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

Sheer  astonishment  up  to  this  moment  had 
held  Stein  just  in  the  attitude  in  which  Chance 
had  surprised  him,  and,  except  for  his  stertorous 
breathing,  silent.  But  now,  with  thick  voice  and 
clumsy  tongue,  he  spoke. 

"You  here,  you  fool!" 

Chance  sharply  threw  up  his  hand.  "Hush," 
he  commanded  softly.  "You  don't  want  your 
guards  to  hear  —  do  you,  Stein  ?  —  and  come 
to  take  a  hand  in  this  ?  —  Come  and  find  you 
detaining  a  lady  here  against  her  will?"  With 
that  he  came  a  step  farther  into  the  room,  far 
enough  to  be  clear  of  the  door,  and  softly  shut 
it  behind  him. 

It  had  a  queer  effect,  somehow,  the  soft  click 
of  the  heavy  door.  It  showed  that  something, 
hidden  as  yet  from  Stein's  slow-moving  mind, 
made  this  young  man,  whom  his  great  hands 
could  have  crushed  to  death,  honestly  believe 
that  he  was  master  of  the  situation.  It  had  the 
effect  of  shifting  the  focal  point  of  Stein's  at 
tention  from  the  girl  beside  him  to  the  man  at  the 


The  Man  at  the  Door  297 

door.  And  the  tangible  result  of  it  was  that 
Cynthia  felt  the  grip  on  her  arm  relax,  found  that 
she  was  able,  gradually,  to  free  herself  and  draw 
back  a  little,  just  out  of  the  big  man's  immediate 
reach. 

She  was  watching  Chance  intently,  and  though 
his  eyes  never  strayed  to  her  she  saw  something 
in  them  that  made  her  wonder  if  it  had  not  been 
to  attain  this  very  result  that  he  had  closed  the 
door.  A  high,  confident  excitement  began  mount 
ing  in  her  veins.  He  would  save  her  as  certainly 
as  he  had  saved  her  that  day  in  Paris.  Stein's 
great  strength  and  the  windowless  walls  of  the 
steel  room  would  no  more  avail  against  him  than 
the  frenzied  mob  in  the  Boulevard. 

But  she  herself  must  not  fail  him.  Whatever 
happened,  she  must  not  be  frightened.  She 
must  wait,  and  she  must  be  ready  to  play  whatever 
part  he  might  call  upon  her  for.  Not  the  smallest 
trivial  detail  of  what  he  did  escaped  her.  When 
he  drew  a  handkerchief  from  his  breast  pocket 
and  wiped  his  hands  with  it,  she  noted  that  the 
pocket  he  returned  it  to  was  the  outer  one  in  the 
left  side  of  his  coat. 

"And  it  happens,"  Chance  went  on  after  he 
had  closed  the  door  and  again  stood  facing  his 


298  Comrade  John 

big  antagonist,  "that  I  don't  want  the  guards 
here  either.  They  don't  know  I'm  here  —  Oh, 
they're  all  at  their  posts.  I  didn't  come  in 
through  any  of  the  doors  nor  any  of  the  windows. 
Perhaps  you  remember  the  details  of  your  dream 
of  this  temple  well  enough  to  know  what  way  I 
used.  But  never  mind  if  you  don't.  The  point 
is  that  I'm  making  a  personal  matter  of  this.  I'm 
taking  your  case  into  my  own  hands.  Nobody, 
outside  the  three  of  us,  knows  I'm  here  or  here 
about.  This  is  strictly  our  affair  —  yours  and 
mine." 

Stein's  head  was  sunk  forward  a  little  and  was 
rolling  just  perceptibly  from  side  to  side.  His 
lips  were  drawn  back  in  a  dog's  smile.  "So  be 
it,"  he  said.  "I  want  no  better." 

He  had  been  drawing  nearer  the  slight  figure 
at  the  door  as  he  said  it.  He  was  coming  along 
what,  from  Chance's  point  of  view,  was  the  right 
side  of  the  table.  And  Cynthia,  on  the  other 
side,  was  coming  toward  him,  too,  probably  with 
out  being  aware  of  it.  She  must  come  no  further. 
Stein  was  getting  ready  for  a  rush,  and  another 
step  on  her  part  would  precipitate  it. 

Chance  plunged  his  hands  into  his  two  side 
pockets.  His  eyes,  smiling  and  alert,  were  on 


The  Man  at  the  Door 


299 


the  prophet  but  he  spoke  to  the  girl.  "Cynthia, 
put  on  your  hat." 

It  lay  on  the  table  toward  the  farther  end,  so 
that  she  had  to  go  back  a  step  in  order  to  reach 
it.  Stein  also  fell  back  a  little  toward  his  desk. 
Chance's  move  with  his  hands  suggested  that 
he  had  a  revolver  in  one  of  his  pockets  and  Stein 
knew  enough  of  the  architect's  unusual  quickness 
to  feel  sure  that  it  would  be  out  and  in  action 
before  he  could  get  near  enough  to  overpower  him. 
As  for  the  desk,  there  was  a  revolver  of  his  own 
in  the  upper  right  hand  drawer,  if  he  only  could 
contrive  a  way  to  open  the  desk  and  get  it. 

But  when  Chance  took  his  hands  out  of  his 
pockets,  as  he  did  a  moment  later,  it  was  only 
to  reveal  a  cigarette  case  in  one  of  them  and  a  box 
of  matches  in  the  other.  There  was  an  instant 
of  silence.  Cynthia  was  finding  the  pin-holes 
in  her  hat  and  pushing  in  the  pins.  Chance, 
with  that  curiously  deceptive  appearance  of 
deliberation  which  only  very  quick  men  are 
capable  of,  was  lighting  a  cigarette  and  replacing 
the  case  in  the  pocket  from  which  he  had  taken 
it;  the  blazing  match  in  his  left  hand  he  tossed 
carelessly  away  and  it  fell  upon  the  rug  a  yard  or 
more  from  where  Cynthia  stood.  And  Stein, 


300  Comrade  John 

leaning  back  against  his  desk,  with  one  hand  be 
hind  him,  was  trying  to  open  the  upper  right 
hand  drawer. 

"You'd  better  bring  your  hands  around  in  front 
of  you/'  said  Chance.  "I'm  going  to  be  the  man 
who  holds  the  gun  while  we  make  our  arrange 
ments."  His  hand  had  flashed  out  of  his  pocket 
again  and  this  time  the  thing  in  it  was  a  service 
able  looking  revolver.  He  did  not  hold  it  out  at 
arms  length  and  sight  along  the  barrel  either. 
The  thing  lay  informally,  familiarly  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand  and  it  pointed  at  Stein's  head  as  if 
it  had  been  an  extra  one  of  Chance's  fingers. 
Before  speaking  again  he  raised  his  left  hand  and 
removed  the  cigarette  from  between  his  lips. 

"This  is  an  old-fashioned  single-action  Colt 
of  Bill  Hemenway's,"  he  said,  "and  I  can  shoot 
pretty  well  with  it.  —  Don't  move  !  It's  pointed 
straight,  and  I  give  you  my  word  I'm  ready  to 
pull  the  trigger.  I  had  to  shoot  a  dog,  once, 
that  some  people  thought  was  mad,  and  I  had 
more  compunction  about  that  than  I  ever  shall 
have  about  this." 

Cynthia  had  finished  putting  on  her  hat  and 
was  about  to  begin  drawing  on  her  gloves  when, 
for  the  first  time  since  Chance  had  opened  the 


The  Man  at  the  Door  301 

door,  she  glanced  toward  Herman  Stein  and 
caught  him  in  the  act  of  withdrawing  his  eyes 
from  her.  He  turned  slowly  toward  Chance. 
"I  am  unarmed,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was 
steadier  than  it  had  been.  "I  suppose  I  must 
confess  that  you  have  beaten  me.  What  are 
the  terms  you  want  me  to  agree  to?" 

He  drew  himself  up  as  he  finished  speaking 
with  what  was  a  pretty  good  imitation  of  his 
old  dignity,  and  walked  very  deliberately,  three 
or  four  steps  alongside  the  table  and  nearer 
John  Chance. 

Cynthia  wanted  all  her  strength  to  keep  from 
crying  out.  The  trick  was  so  patent.  The 
man  knew  that  Chance  would  not  kill  him  in  cold 
blood.  If  he  could  just  get  near  enough  under 
pretence  of  parley  to  seize  a  chance  diversion, 
or  perhaps  create  one  —  perhaps  smash  the  light 
and  then  make  his  spring  — 

To  see  Chance  standing  there,  showing  no  sign 
of  suspicion  of  the  new  danger,  his  attitude  easy 
rather  than  alert,  his  left  hand,  cigarette  and  all 
apparently,  even  thrust  into  his  side  pocket, 
tested  her  courage  and  endurance  and  her  steady 
resolve  to  wait  and  trust  the  event  to  him,  clear 
to  the  edge  of  her  powers. 


302  Comrade  John 

She  heard  him  beginning  to  answer  Stein's 
question.  "It  is  Miss  Cynthia — " 

And  at  that  she  did  cry  out,  indeed.  Stein 
had  the  opportunity  he  had  been  playing  for. 
When  Chance  had  begun  to  speak  of  her,  his 
eyes  for  just  an  instant,  had  strayed  from  Stein 
to  herself.  And  Stein,  who  with  every  nerve 
and  muscle  tense  had  been  waiting,  hoping  against 
hope  for  this  very  thing,  took  his  chance,  made 
his  spring. 

But  all  in  the  same  flash  of  time  other  things 
happened.  In  the  same  instant  of  her  horrified 
outcry  she  heard  the  mate  to  it  from  Chance  him 
self.  As  the  prophet  had  rushed  upon  him  he 
had  sprung  toward  her.  The  revolver  had  flown 
from  his  hand,  struck  the  table,  slid  diagonally 
across  it  and  fallen  near  the  safe.  Chance  was 
stooping  at  her  feet  now  and  clutching  the  folds 
of  her  skirt  in  his  hands. 

She  bent  over.  Something  was  blazing  down 
there  and  a  hot  puff  of  air  with  the  sweetish, 
pungent  smell  of  burning  linen  about  it,  struck  her 
face.  Chance  was  crushing  out  the  blaze  with 
his  bare  hands. 

It  was  two  or  three  seconds  before  he  spoke. 
His  voice  when  he  did,  was  dry  and  not  loud, 


The  Man  at  the  Door  303 

but  it  had  a  compelling,  contagious  thrill  of  ex 
citement  in  it.  "  Get  some  water,  Stein.  Quick  ! 
She  caught  from  the  match  I  threw  down.  Quick, 
will  you !" 

For  an  instant  the  prophet  hesitated.  He 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blaze,  and  the  sharp 
smoke  was  already  stinging  his  nostrils,  but  — 

And  then  —  even  this  was  before  Chance  had 
finished  speaking  —  with  a  queer  look  in  his 
face  he  hurried  around  the  far  side  of  the  table 
to  the  stationary  washstand  that  occupied  the 
corner  by  the  safe. 

Cynthia  swayed  where  she  stood.  Stein  would 
get  the  revolver  !  Without  the  support  of  Chance's 
shoulders,  as  he  stooped  before  her  still  crushing 
the  folds  of  her  skirt  together  between  his  hands, 
she  would  have  fallen.  And  she  dared  not  warn 
him  for  fear  her  own  words  might  direct  Stein 
to  what,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  might 
otherwise  pass  unnoticed. 

Behind  them,  where  he  stood,  they  could  hear 
the  water  running  —  into  a  basin. 

"Tip  over  the  chair  behind  you  and  bolt," 
whispered  Chance  very  softly.  "Tip  it  side 
ways.  "I'll  swing  the  table  around  as  you 
do  it." 


304  Comrade  John 

She  thought  she  understood.  "Not  without 
you,"  she  barely  breathed,  bending  low  over  him. 
"He  means  to  kill  you.  "He's  got  the  — " 

Still  crouching  before  her,  he  threw  back  his 
head  and  looked  up,  and  her  amazed  eyes  saw 
—  nothing  tragic,  nothing  heroic,  just  a  plain, 
good-humored,  reassuring  grin  with  a  pucker 
of  what  you  might  have  almost  called  mischief 
in  his  eyes.  He  was  holding  something  in  his 
hand  for  her  to  see.  The  hand  was  scorched  but 
the  thing  in  it  was  the  charred  remains  of 
his  own  pocket  handkerchief  and  the  extinct 
cigarette.  He  whispered  just  the  one  word, 
"Quick." 

She  rested  her  hand  on  the  chair  behind  her  as 
if  for  its  support,  then  overthrew  it,  as  he  had  said, 
and  darted  past  him.  In  the  same  instant  she 
heard  the  thud  and  creak  of  the  heavy  table  as  he 
swung  it  around  crosswise.  She  was  in  the  act 
of  turning  the  door-knob  before  she  heard  Stein 
bellow,  "Stop!"  Then,  as  she  pulled  it  open 
and  Chance  springing  to  her  side  thrust  her 
through,  there  came,  instead  of  the  shattering 
report  of  the  revolver  which  she  still  dreaded, 
merely  one,  and  then  another,  and  in  all  five 
faint,  futile,  metallic  clicks. 


The  Man  at  the  Door  305 

"Not  loaded,"  said  Chance,  quietly. 

He  still  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  hand  on  the 
outer  knob.  Stein,  who  had  trusted  to  the  re 
volver,  was  still  penned  in  behind  the  impromptu 
barricade  they  had  made  of  the  furniture.  He 
had  thrown  down  the  revolver  and  now  made  as 
if  to  vault  the  table  in  pursuit  of  them,  but  the 
manifest  hopelessness  of  such  a  course  stopped 
him,  and  with  something  like  a  sob  he  sank  back 
into  his  desk  chair. 

"You  didn't  understand,"  said  Chance,  pleas 
antly  ;  Cynthia  noted  in  his  voice  the  same  cutting 
edge  she  had  heard  in  it  when  he  had  dismissed 
Tommy  Hollister,  and  it  gave  her  much  the 
same  sensation.  "You  didn't  understand.  You 
weren't  sentenced  to  be  shot.  There  was  no 
question  of  anything  like  that.  You  were  sen 
tenced  to  be  made  ridiculous,  to  be  remembered 
as  a  joke.  That's  all  the  reckoning  either  of  us 
wanted  of  you.  Did  you  think  you  deserved  to 
be  promoted  to  real  tragedy?"  And  as  he  closed 
the  door,  he  added  one  word  more,  in  valedictory. 
"I'm  leaving  your  extra  key  here  in  the  lock. 
I  shan't  want  it  again."  With  that  he  pulled 
the  door  to,  turned  the  key,  and  left  it  in  the  lock 
as  he  had  promised. 


306  Comrade  John 

"He  has  a  key  of  his  own,  you  know,"  Cynthia 
whispered. 

"But  he  can't  get  it  into  the  lock  until  some  one 
comes  along  and  takes  this  one  out,"  Chance 
reassured  her,  and  then  added,  in  a  voice  of 
rather  different  quality,  "No,  you're  done  with 
him." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence  between  them 
at  that,  which  he  broke  with  the  observation  that 
there  were  some  chairs  here  in  the  robing-room 
and  they  might  as  well  sit  down  for  a  minute. 
He  had  got  out  a  match  while  he  was  speaking, 
and  now  he  struck  it  and  held  it  aloft.  But 
instead  of  using  its  brief  light  to  note  where  the 
chairs  were,  they  just  stood  still  looking  into  each 
other's  faces. 

In  the  dark  he  had  imagined  her  pale,  drooping, 
perhaps  about  to  faint,  and  what  he  saw  was  so 
different  that  it  drew  from  him  a  short  laugh  of 
surprise;  bright- cheeked,  bright-eyed,  she  had 
never  seemed  to  him  to  glow  with  so  warmly 
human  a  light  before.  She  had  a  soft  little  laugh 
of  her  own  to  echo  his,  without  any  reason  at  all. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  needed  to  be  helped 
into  a  chair,  or  fanned,  or  given  a  drink  of  water," 
he  said.  "That's  good  pluck  after  all  you've 


The  Man  at  the  Door  307 

been  through.  I  saw  I  could  count  on  you,  and 
I  did,  and  you  made  the  whole  thing  easy.  And 
now  it's  over  you've  a  perfect  right  to  turn  limp 
if  you  want  to." 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "if  anyone 
else  in  the  world  could  have  done  it  that  way  — 
you  know  what  I  mean  —  without  making  a 
tragedy  of  it  that  would  have  left  a  streak  of 
horror  across  my  memory  of  it." 

The  tiny  flame  of  the  match  reached  his  fingers 
at  last  and  with  some  precipitation  he  flung  it 
down  and  stepped  on  it.  The  action  reminded 
her  sharply  of  something  else.  "Your  hand"  — 
she  exclaimed,  but  without  raising  her  voice  — 
"it's  dreadfully  burned,  I  know,  and  I  had  for 
gotten  it.  You  made  me  forget,  but  I'll  never 
forget  again.  I  think  I  can  bind  it  up  with  — " 

With  a  touch  of  his  fingers  he  signalled  her  to 
be  silent,  and  listening  she  heard  footsteps  ap 
proaching  across  the  temple  floor.  "It's  just 
one  of  the  guards,"  Chance  whispered.  "It's 
all  right.  He  won't  come  here."  And  as  he 
said,  the  footsteps  gradually  receded  again. 

"But,"  she  questioned,  puzzled,  "aren't  we 
all  right,  anyway?  Would  it  have  mattered  if 
he  had  come  here?" 


308  Comrade  John 

"I'd  forgotten  we  weren't  in  the  same  case," 
he  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "You  are  safe  so 
far  as  those  guards  are  concerned.  You  can  go 
out  the  front  door  and  you  won't  be  molested." 

"But  you?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  serious,  only  I  have  to  lie 
low.  They're  buzzing  after  me  like  a  swarm 
of  bees,  the  Beechcrofters,  I  mean.  Stein  has 
said,  I  believe,  that  I'm  planning  to  skip  with  all 
the  cash  on  the  place,  or  words  to  that  effect. 
It's  not  dangerous,  only  inconvenient." 

"And  it  would  be  easier  for  you,  wouldn't 
it,  if  I  went  out  the  front  door,  and  left  you  free 
to  get  out  alone  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  instantly  and  she  heard 
him  groping  for  another  match.  When  he  had 
lighted  it,  he  let  it  shine  directly  in  her  face. 
"You're  to  choose  which  way  you'd  rather  go, 
alone,  or  with  me  —  Wait  a  minute.  I  want 
your  real  choice,  what  you  would  rather  do, 
irrespective  of  what  you  think  would  be  easier 
for  me.  I  may  not  let  you  do  it  after  you've 
chosen,  but,  for  a  favor,  I  want  your  real 
choice." 

"With  you,"  she  said. 

He  flung  away  the  match,  though  it  was  not 


The  Man  at  the  Door  309 

yet  burned  out.  "Come,  then,"  he  said,  a  little 
unsteadily. 

"Was  that  what  you  meant  to  make  me  do, 
anyway?  " 

By  that  time  he  was  ready  with  another  match, 
and  was  leading  the  way  to  a  door  which  opened 
on  a  flight  of  steps  down  to  the  cellar  under  the 
platform.  And  all  she  got  for  answer  to  her 
question  was  a  boyish  sort  of  laugh. 

There  was  an  open  manhole  in  the  cellar 
floor  from  which  issued  the  rustle  of  run 
ning  water.  Chance  handed  Cynthia  his  box 
of  matches,  climbed  down  the  two  or  three 
rungs  of  an  iron  ladder  that  hung  from  the 
rim  of  the  hole,  and  dropped  off  into  the 
water  with  a  splash.  His  head  was  a  foot 
or  more  below  the  level  of  the  floor.  The 
action  drew  from  her  a  little  cry  of  surprise. 

"It's  the  big  pipe,"  Chance  explained,  "that 
carries  the  water  to  make  the  cascade  from  the 
top  of  the  temple  steps.  We  had  to  make  it  big 
to  allow  for  freshets,  but  it's  not  more  than  knee 
deep  now.  " 

Cynthia  had  been  getting  her  skirts  together, 
preparatory  to  following  him,  but  now  she  paused 
with  a  short  laugh.  "Oh,  you're  not  going  to 


310  Comrade  John 

wade,"  said  Chance.  "  You're  going  to  be  carried. 
You  shan't  even  draggle  your  skirts." 

"I  laughed,"  she  said,  "because  it  was  the  first 
time  I  ever  thought  of  Mr.  Stein's  feathery^ 
miraculous  cascade  running  through  a  pipe. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  be  carried  and  I  am  going 
to  wade."  She  began  descending  the  ladder. 
"I'm  not  a  helpless  —  frightened  —  silly — " 

She  felt  Chance's  arms  tighten  around  her. 
"Let  yourself  go,"  he  said.  "I've  got  you  safe. 
This  is  another  time  you're  going  to  mind." 

He  spent  a  moment  getting  her  settled  in 
the  right  position  and  showing  her  how  to 
support  herself  upon  him.  "You're  only  half 
as  heavy  that  way,"  he  explained  when  it  was 
done  and  he  went  splashing  off  up  the  conduit 
with  her.  He  did  not  talk;  as  a  matter  of 
fact  he  needed  all  his  breath.  For  a  little 
way  she  held  herself  somewhat  rigidly,  but 
presently,  and  all  at  once,  she  relaxed,  settled 
a  little  nearer  him,  somehow,  with  a  barely 
audible  sigh  of  purely  physical  content.  He 
set  his  teeth  hard  at  that,  and  tried  to  steady  his 
breathing. 

"You're  getting  tired,"  she  said. 

"It's    only    a    step    farther.     Here.     There's 


The  Man  at  the  Door  311 

a  ledge  along  the  side  from  here  on,  where  you  can 
go  dry-shod. " 

And  with  that  he  set  her  on  her  feet  again. 

Presently  they  emerged  from  the  conduit 
altogether,  and  scrambled  up  the  bank  of  the 
brook. 

"Up  to  the  right  here  a  little  way  is  our  old 
construction  road  that  we  used  when  we  built 
the  temple,"  Chance  told  her.  "Once  we  find 
that,  we'll  be  out  of  Beechcroft  in  short  order." 

They  did  find  it  almost  at  once.  The  night  was 
moonless,  but  the  stars  seemed  strangely  luminous 
after  the  black  dark  of  the  conduit.  They  passed 
the  old  shack  and  the  barracks  of  the  deserted 
construction  camp,  the  road  narrowed  and  began 
to  mount  more  steeply,  and  all  the  way  they 
went  steadily  on,  in  a  silence  that  neither  of  them 
wanted  to  break.  But  at  last,  where  the  road 
notched  deepest  between  great  ascending  walls 
of  pines,  and  began  to  dip  again,  Chance  paused 
and  tapped  a  mile-stone  with  his  foot. 

"Here's  the  end  of  Beechcroft,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  BEECHCROFT  MIRACLE 

THE  key  which  Chance  had  left  in  the  steel- 
room  door  turned  again  softly,  but  Stein  did  not 
move  his  head  until  the  door  had  opened  and  the 
newcomer  stood  in  the  room.  He  almost  knew 
who  it  was  without  looking.  Cynthia  would  not 
come  back.  Chance,  Hobbema,  were  gone. 
But  Ellen  —  it  was  her  turn  now. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  she  did  not  look  alto 
gether  natural,  not  as  she  had  looked  this  last 
twelvemonth,  anyway;  but  he  was  not  interested 
to  analyze  the  change.  He  turned  back  into  his 
former  attitude  after  the  merest  glance,  aware 
only  that  if  he  had  been  but  half  the  man  he  had 
persuaded  himself  that  he  was,  it  might  have  been 
Cynthia  standing  there. 

The  core  of  Ellen's  soul,  in  its  nest  of  ashes, 
was  glowing  again;  not  with  the  destructive 
312 


The  Beechcroft  Miracle  313 

incandescence  that  once  had  tortured  her,  but 
warmly,  comfortingly.  She  knew  now  past  any 
doubt  that  she  was  no  mere  gray  ghost.  She 
had  taken  life  into  her  hands  again  and  it  had 
bent,  conformably  to  her  will,  as  white  hot  iron 
bends  in  the  blacksmith's.  The  essential  change 
expressed  itself  subtly  all  over  her;  in  her  color, 
her  eyes,  her  gait,  even  in  the  way  she  dressed 
her  hair  and  wore  her  clothes.  She  looked 
about  the  room,  taking  in  the  significant  details 
of  its  disorder,  all  of  them  proclaiming  a  struggle 
and  a  defeat,  and  at  last  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the 
man  himself.  She  was  smiling  a  little  satirically, 
but  with  no  more  intense  expression  of  scorn  than 
that,  and  when  she  spoke  the  tone  of  her  voice 
was  almost  friendly. 

"So  you  know  the  taste  of  it,  at  last,  yourself. 
You,  too.  You  put  in  your  best  and  it  was  not 
good  enough.  'Mene,  mene,  tekel — '  There's 
nothing  about  that  in  your  bible,  Herman,  but 
it  comes  true,  now  and  again." 

At  that  he  looked  up  at  her,  still  from  out  the 
sodden  bewilderment  into  which  his  defeat  had 
plunged  him,  but  with  a  redeeming  spark,  now, 
of  intelligent  curiosity  in  his  eyes.  "Why  do 
you  say  that?  Why  did  you  come  here  at  all?" 


314  Comrade  John 

"For  more  reasons  than  one,"  she  told  him. 
"Partly  to  see  whether  Mr.  Chance  had  been  able 
to  keep  the  promise  he  made  me  last  night.  I 
knew  he  would,  really.  He  promised  that  you 
should  not  do  to  her  what  you  had  done  to  me. 
But  that  was  not  the  chief  reason  why  I  came. 
I  wanted  to  see  the  result  of  my  own  work.  I 
wanted  to  see  you  looking  as  you  look  now  and  to 
tell  myself  that  I  had  brought  it  about." 

"You!"  he  said,  impatiently  turning  away 
from  her.  "You!  I  can  guess  how  much  you 
had  to  do  with  it." 

"You  shan't  guess,"  she  said  with  a  quiet 
authority  that  commanded  his  gaze  again.  "  You 
shan't  guess.  You  shall  know.  Listen.  Yes 
terday  Samuel  Hobbema  learned  how  the  Beech- 
croft  miracle  was  worked,  and  who  it  was  that 
worked  it.  He  came  to  me  as  he  has  been  coming 
for  a  year  and  more.  He  thought  that  between 
what  he  knew  of  you  and  what  I  knew,  we  could 
utterly  ruin  you.  And  he  —  and  I  —  could 
reign  in  your  stead.  I  told  him  that  if  he  wanted 
your  mantle,  he  would  have  to  pull  it  from  your 
shoulders  himself.  John  Chance  also  knew 
what  he  had  discovered.  He  destroyed  the  evi 
dence  and  he  frightened  poor  Comrade  Samuel 


The  Beechcroft  Miracle  315 

half  to  death  into  the  bargain.  I  asked  him  why 
he  did  it  and  he  told  me  that  since  he  had  con 
sented  to  the  fraud  his  one  way  of  keeping  his 
self-respect  was  to  stay  loyal  to  somebody  — 
that  being  you  —  to  the  end,  and  to  put  through 
the  job  he  was  getting  paid  for.  That  was  yes 
terday.  You  were  safe  yesterday.  But  it  was 
yesterday  that  you  laid  hands  on  Cynthia;  that 
you  made  her  the  same  lying  promise  that  you 
once  made  me." 

"Before  God,"  Stein  cried,  "I  would  have 
kept  it." 

"Before  God,"  she  echoed,  "you  meant  it 
when  you  made  it  to  me.  Could  you  have  won 
me  with  it,  do  you  think,  if  you  had  not?  But 
the  end  would  have  been  the  same  with  her  that 
it  was  with  me.  You  are  just  a  great  leech  with 
women,  and  when  you  had  drained  her  dry  you 
would  have  left  her  in  the  same  limbo  where  you 
left  me.  So  I  told  my  story  to  John  Chance,  and 
I  got  his  promise  that  he  would  take  her  away 
from  you  before  it  should  be  too  late.  That 
was  last  night.  And  to-day,  to  keep  his  promise, 
he  has  pulled  down  the  temple  of  your  religion 
as  a  strong  man  did  once  before  —  a  strong  man 
who  was  not  afraid  to  pay  the  price.  I  didn't 


3i 6  Comrade  John 

do  much.  I  couldn't  have  pulled  down  the  pil 
lars,  but  I  led  him  in  and  put  his  hands  on  them. 
And  that's  another  story  that  you  left  out  of 
your  bible." 

She  broke  off  there  and  stood  watching  him, 
curiously.  He  was  tugging  at  a  drawer  in  his 
desk,  trying  to  get  it  open.  It  stuck  a  little, 
but  the  exertion  he  was  making  over  it  was  hardly 
enough  to  account  for  the  purple  suffusion  of  his 
face,  the  shine  of  sweat  on  his  forehead,  the  ster 
torous  respiration.  Ellen  righted  the  chair  that 
Cynthia  had  upset,  and  seated  herself  in  it  at 
the  far  end  of  the  table. 

"So  you  will  understand  now  why  I  came," 
she  went  on.  "I  wanted  the  evidence  of  my  own 
eyes  that  I  had  really  effected  something  again." 
She  inflected  the  sentence  rather  vaguely,  as  if 
it  didn't  much  matter;  the  major  part  of  her 
attention  was  elsewhere. 

He  had  got  the  drawer  far  enough  open  now  so 
that  it  moved  easily.  He  satisfied  himself  that 
this  was  so,  then  rose  cumbrously  from  his  chair 
and  walked  over  to  the  door.  He  did  not  go 
quite  straight,  nor  very  steadily,  but  this  was 
clearly  due  to  no  uncertainty  of  purpose,  but  to 
a  mere  lack  of  physical  control.  With  some 


The  Beechcrojt  Miracle  317 

fumbling  he  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key,  the 
second  key,  in  his  pocket ;  then  he  went  back  to 
his  desk,  seated  himself,  opened  the  drawer  wide, 
and  took  out  a  revolver.  It  was  the  one  he  had 
vainly  tried  to  get  when  he  stood  facing  John 
Chance.  "The  other  one  was  not  loaded," 
he  said  thickly,  "but  there's  no  doubt  about  this." 

She  had  been  watching  him  minutely  all  the 
while  and  with  a  look  that  dawned  into  full  com 
prehension  before  he  took  the  revolver  from  the 
drawer.  But  there  was  no  horror  in  her  face. 
One  would  sooner  have  called  it  eager.  His 
own  betrayed  little  beyond  a  desperate  sort  of 
excitement,  and  he  did  not  look  at  her,  now  or 
the  next  moment  when  he  spoke. 

"It  was  not  he,  damn  him,  who  defeated  me, 
nor  was  it  you.  I  defeated  myself.  I  want  you 
to  understand  that.  It  is  the  last  thing  you  are 
ever  to  have  a  chance  to  understand.  A  clever 
little  swindler  like  him,  nor  a  jealous  hag  like 
you,  nor  you  two  together,  nor  twenty  like  you, 
could  not  have  defeated  me.  I  could  defeat 
myself,  and  I  did.  I  did  it  for  her.  She  was 
more  than  all  the  rest  of  it.  It  was  worth  defeat 
to  get  her,  and  I  did  get  her.  She  came  in  here 
of  her  own  will.  She  had  heard  John  Chance's 


318  Comrade  John 

whole  story  for  what  it  was  worth.  He  played 
his  biggest  trump.  And  after  all  that,  she  came 
here.  She  was  mine,  mine,  but  for  a  piece  of 
ill  luck  with  that  damned  telephone,  to  do  as  I 
pleased  with,  as  absolutely  as  you  ever  were. 
The  accident  that  took  her  away  doesn't  matter. 
That  was  not  my  defeat.  I  defeated  myself  the 
day  I  let  myself  laugh  at  the  pack  of  lies  I  had 
been  telling  you  credulous  fools,  and  said  that 
if  they  weren't  good  enough  to  win  her,  I  had 
other  means  that  would.  They  did  win  her, 
those  other  means  of  mine.  I  defeated  myself 
to  win  her.  Do  you  understand? 

"Now,  listen,  for  this  is  the  last  thing  you'll 
ever  hear.  I've  enjoyed  a  good  deal  in  this  life. 
I've  enjoyed  you,  among  others.  I've  enjoyed 
this  religion  of  mine.  I  enjoyed  winning  her, 
enjoyed  the  knowledge  that  she  was  mine.  I 
enjoyed  throwing  it  all  away  for  her.  I've  made 
my  life  as  I  chose.  I  defeated  myself  when  I 
chose.  And  I  choose  that  this  shall  be  the  end 
of  it.  I  don't  care,  after  these  last  days,  to  go 
back  to  card  tricks,  and  crystal  balls  and  revival 
meetings.  I'll  stop  here.  I  shall  sleep  sound. 
I've  no  fear  of  dreams,  afterwards.  And  you're 
going  to  stop  here,  too.  Not  because  of  anything 


The  Beechcrojt  Miracle  319 

you've  done  to  me.  You've  effected  nothing, 
do  you  understand?  Nothing.  But  I  shall  kill 
you,  just  as  I  loved  you,  and  lived  with  you,  and 
left  you,  because  I  choose.  Do  you  want  to  pray, 
or  anything?  You  may  not  think  you  can  sleep 
as  sound  as  I." 

He  did  not  once  look  at  her  until  he  had  done 
speaking.  When  he  did,  he  found  her  gaze, 
eager,  intent,  curious,  fixed  on  his  face.  Her  lips 
were  still  smiling  a  little  satirically  and  the  color 
had  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 

"Are  you  really  man  enough  for  that,  I 
wonder!"  she  said.  "I  shall  never  know,  I 
suppose.  Oh,  yes,  I  expect  to  sleep  soundly,  too. 
I've  an  idea  that  you  aren't  quite  so  easy  as  you 
say  about  the  dreams  afterwards.  At  any  rate, 
this  pose  of  yours  will  carry  you  through  with 
killing  me,  and,  on  the  whole,  I'm  not  sorry. 
But  to  crook  your  finger  with  that  thing  pressed 
to  your  own  head  will  be  a  different  matter. 
You'll  be  all  alone,  then ;  there  will  be  no  one  to 
pose  before,  no  one  to  listen  to  your  impressive 
last  words,  no  one  to  care  whether  you  do  it  or 
not.  It  will  be  the  real  man,  then,  who  will  do 
it,  if  it's  to  be  done.  And  if  he  isn't  what  you're 
trying  to  pretend  he  is,  you'll  turn  cold  and  afraid. 


320  Comrade  John 

You'll  try  to  steal  away,  and  they'll  catch  you 
and  hang  you,  Herman.  Oh,  you'd  best  make 
sure." 

There  was  a  moment  after  that  of  what  would 
have  been  silence  but  for  his  heavy  breathing. 
She  had  been  speaking,  from  second  to  second, 
from  one  word  to  the  next,  in  extreme  peril  of 
instant  death.  He  was  not  holding  the  revolver; 
it  still  lay  on  the  desk  where  he  had  laid  it,  and, 
indeed,  his  twitching  'muscles  would  almost  have 
precluded  the  effective  use  of  it.  But  as  he  sat 
there  glaring  at  her  out  of  his  opaque,  blood-shot 
eyes,  all  that  held  him  from  flinging  himself  upon 
her,  choking  the  words  in  her  throat,  killing 
her  with  his  hands,  was  the  hypnotic  power  of 
her  utter  fearlessness  and  of  the  searching  truth 
she  spoke.  In  the  silence,  however,  this  peril 
visibly  passed.  His  big  body  relaxed  a  little. 
She  thrust  back  her  chair  and  stood  facing  him. 

"But  if  you  are  sure,  Herman;  if  you  really 
know  in  the  bottom  of  your  soul  that  you  can  do 
it,  then  you're  not  defeated  at  all.  At  least  not 
yet."  Her  voice  had  an  infectious  thrill  of  excite 
ment  in  it.  "You  can  win  them  back,  be  their 
prophet  again.  A  victory  would  taste  good,  now ; 
sweeter  than  ever  it  tasted  before.  And  a  defeat, 


The  Beechcroft  Miracle  321 

if  it  came  to  that,  couldn't  be  bitter.  It's  worth 
trying  —  if  you're  sure." 

She  broke  off  with  a  short  laugh,  at  her  own 
excitement,  it  seemed,  and  dropped  back  into 
her  chair.  "A  fight  like  that  would  be  worth 
while  for  its  own  sake,  I  should  think,"  she  went 
on,  rather  vaguely.  "Not  to  want  anything  from 
them,  not  caring  what  they  did;  just  whipping 
them  back  to  heel,  you  all  alone  and  they  a  thou 
sand.  And  if  you  did  win,  the  victory  would 
be  worth  while,  too.  Oh,  yes,  even  without 
Cynthia,  though  you  did  think  an  hour  ago  that 
she  was  worth  more  than  all  the  rest.  You'd 
soon  find  a  successor  for  her;  one  whom  you 
wouldn't  take  so  seriously.  I  wonder  why  I'm 
saying  these  things  to  you.  I  suppose  I  shall 
always  wonder.  I  suppose  it's  because  you  are 
something  besides  a  fraud.  You're  a  prophet, 
too,  partly.  'Toil  and  Triumph'  isn't  all  a  lie. 
I  believed  it,  once.  So  even  did  you,  I  think. 
And  for  these  make-believe  people  who  sit 
around,  coddling  their  own  souls,  it's  as  good  a 
gospel  as  any.  If  they  turn  away  from  it,  it 
will  only  be  to  turn  to  one  of  the  others — " 

Stein  was  not  listening;  his  own  mind  was 
busy  with  a  picture  that  left  little  room  for  any- 

Y 


322  Comrade  John 

thing  else.  John  Chance's  analysis  of  him  as 
simply  a  fellow-showman  was  perfectly  true  as 
far  as  it  went;  but  Chance  had  never  perceived 
how  completely  Stein  participated  in  the  thrill 
he  was  producing  in  his  audience.  Ellen  went 
to  the  root  of  the  matter  when  she  called  him 
a  poseur.  And  if  this  was  his  weakness,  it  was 
also  his  strength.  At  least,  it  accounted  for  his 
resiliency.  A  man  plunged  half  as  deep  in  de 
spair  as  he  pretended  he  was  would  have  shot  him 
self  long  before  Ellen  came  to  the  steel-room  door. 
She  had,  indeed,  stripped  that  pose  away  from 
him  without  mercy,  but  almost  in  the  same  breath 
she  had  supplied  him  with  another.  Her  phrases 
about  whipping  the  disciples  back  to  heel,  him 
self  alone  against  the  multitude,  had  a  pictorial 
quality  which  set  his  imagination  all  ablaze  again. 
He  could  see  the  whole  picture.  He  would  stand 
at  the  head  of  the  stairway  to  the  temple,  his 
formidable  figure  in  full  canonicals,  lighted  by 
the  fitful  glare  of  torches.  The  multitude  would 
be  massed  below.  He  saw  himself  winning  them 
from  angry  tumult  back  to  silence;  from  silence 
on  to  cheers,  from  cheers  to  the  reverent  acceptance 
of  his  benediction.  At  that,  he  rose  brusquely 
from  his  chair  and  interrupted  her. 


The  Beechcrojt  Miracle  323 

"I  can  win  them,"  he  declared.  "I  have  my 
message  again.  My  feet  are  plucked  up  out 
of  the  pit  —  " 

His  eye  fell  on  the  revolver  and  the  sight  of  it 
checked  him  for  a  moment.  He  took  it  up  and 
put  it  back  in  the  drawer.  When  he  turned  to 
her  and  went  on  speaking,  it  was  with  all  his  old, 
impressive  dignity.  He  had  assumed  the  prophet 
again. 

"It  is  you  who  have  done  this,"  he  said.  "It 
was  through  you  that  I  was  brought  down  in  order 
that  I  might  again  be  raised  up.  I  have  been 
through  hell.  And  you,  who  came  and  found 
me  in  the  depths  of  it,  who  came  to  glory  over  me 
and  who  showed  me  the  way  out,  you  cannot  tell 
me  why.  But  I  can  tell.  It  is  because  you  belong 
to  me,  because  we  belong  together.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

The  words  did  what  neither  his  threats  nor 
his  violence  had  been  able  to  do  —  made  her  shrink 
suddenly  away  from  him  and  brought  a  haggard, 
frightened  look  into  her  eyes. 

"You  tell  me  you  are  going  to  win,"  she  said 
unsteadily.  "If  you  do  —  I  make  no  promise. 
But  if  you  lose,  and  if  you  come  back  here  to  what 
you  were  facing  when  I  found  you,  then  I'll  go 
with  you,  Herman,  gladly." 


324  Comrade  John 

"I  shall  not  lose,"  he  answered.  "  And  though 
you  make  no  promises,  yet  it  shall  be  as  I 
say." 

He  unlocked  the  door  then,  and  went  out  into 
the  robing-room.  The  next  moment  she  heard 
him  calling  for  a  guard.  "Have  the  bells  rung," 
he  commanded.  "And  do  you  and  your  fel 
lows  go  out  among  the  people  and  summon  them 
all,  every  man  and  woman,  to  the  temple  steps. 
I  have  a  message  for  them." 

The  guard  made  a  reverence  and  withdrew 
to  do  the  prophet's  bidding.  Stein,  left  alone, 
was  about  to  return  to  Ellen  when  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  open  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  into 
the  cellar.  Ordinarily  that  door  was  locked. 
He  switched  on  an  electric  light  and  looked  down 
the  stairway.  The  next  moment  he  was  back 
at  the  steel-room  door  speaking  to  Ellen. 

"I  shall  be  back  in  a  moment,"  he  said.  "Wait 
for  me  here."  He  closed  the  door  after  him, 
hesitated  a  moment  whether  to  lock  it  or  not,  and 
decided  in  the  negative.  Then,  briskly  but 
softly  for  so  large  a  man,  he  crossed  the  robing- 
room  again  and  descended  the  stairs.  A  line 
of  still  damp  tracks  across  the  dusty  floor  led 
him  straight  to  the  uncovered  manhole.  He 


The  Beechcrojt  Miracle  325 

stood  here  for  a  moment  looking  down,  then 
stooped  and  examined  the  small  iron  ladder  sus 
pended  from  the  rim  of  the  hole.  He  had  known 
that  the  stream  which  made  the  cascade  from 
the  threshold  of  the  temple  door  ran  under  the 
edifice  through  a  pipe,  but  that  this  was  large 
enough  to  afford  a  practicable  means  of  egress 
from  his  temple  had  not  occurred  to  him.  His 
face  was  still  grave,  impressive,  inscrutable, 
when  he  moved  away. 

It  was  one  of  the  real  men  inside  his  skin  who 
had  charge  of  his  actions  just  now,  one  who  may 
best  be  described  as  a  sort  of  man-servant  to  the 
other  higher-flown  gentry  who  made  up  his  total 
sum.  A  very  silent,  prosaic  valet  this  was,  who 
attended  to  practical  and  intimate  details  and 
never  intruded  his  humble  offices  upon  the  lofty 
planes  of  solitude  and  revery  where  the  prophet 
walked.  He  explored  the  cellar  a  little  further 
and  came  upon  a  heap  of  litter,  the  position  of 
which,  at  the  foot  of  a  wooden  air  shaft,  suggested 
that  some  careless  workman  had  used  it  as  a 
chute  during  the  process  of  cleaning  up.  Not 
far  away  was  a  sort  of  lumber-room  containing 
various  odds  and  ends,  tools,  paint-brushes,  and 
a  couple  of  oily  looking  barrels. 


326  Comrade  John 

The  bells  were  already  flinging  an  imperious 
summons  abroad  into  the  night  air  when  he 
returned  to  the  steel-room.  Ellen  was  sitting 
just  as  he  had  left  her.  It  was  the  prophet,  not 
the  man-servant,  who  spoke  to  her.  "Listen," 
he  commanded,  with  uplifted  hand.  "They 
are  calling  the  people  together  to  hear  my  mes 
sage.  I  must  not  fail  them.  I  must  be  alone  for 
a  little.  Wait  for  me  in  the  temple.  I  shall 
come  soon." 

It  was  entirely  characteristic  of  him  that  when 
she  had  gone,  and  while  the  prophet  was  con 
templating  his  source  of  inspiration,  whatever  it 
was,  the  man-servant  was  getting  him  dressed, 
in  full  canonicals,  indeed,  so  far  as  outward 
appearances  went,  but  underneath  in  a  serviceable 
and  inconspicuous  business  suit. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  Beechcroft 
heard  the  bells,  but  their  summons  was  answered 
as  speedily  as  if  it  had  been  noon.  There  was 
no  sleep  in  the  valley.  Excitement  had  mounted 
steadily,  ever  since  Stein's  brief  excursion  from 
the  temple  early  in  the  evening.  Rumor  flew 
everywhere,  diverse,  protean,  now  gross  with 
falsehood,  and  now  again  easily  to  be  verified. 
By  now  it  was  everywhere  admitted  that  Chance 


The  Beechcrojt  Miracle  327 

had  escaped.  He  had  not  been  seen  by  any 
Beechcrofter  since  he  had  eluded  his  watchers 
in  front  of  Ellen's  house,  but  one  of  the  guards 
had  heard  his  voice  in  the  temple  in  evident  con 
versation  with  Stein.  He  had  mentioned  the 
circumstance  to  a  comrade,  and  within  an  hour 
every  person  in  the  colony  knew  of  it.  It  hurt 
the  prophet  more  than  many  a  wilder  and  ap 
parently  more  damning  circumstance  could  have 
done. 

Taken  individually,  the  Beechcrofters  were  as 
harmless  souls  as  one  might  hope  to  find  in  a 
long  day's  journey,  but  in  the  shadow  of  this 
calamity,  which  enveloped  all  alike,  they  were 
fast  losing  their  individual  characteristics.  Their 
collective  temper  grew  steadily  uglier  and  more 
formidable  as  the  hours  wore  away  in  irritating 
and  enforced  inaction.  Ellen  had  said  that  they 
might  be  won  back  by  a  man  who  had  already 
plucked  the  sting  from  the  bitterness  of  defeat, 
who  was  fearless  because  past  fear.  She  may 
have  been  right.  But  such  a  victory  was  not 
likely  to  fall  to  a  man  who  still  had  his  bridges 
intact  behind  him,  who  was  dressed,  underneath 
his  picturesque  canonicals,  in  an  inconspicuous 
business  suit. 


328  Comrade  John 

So  far  as  preliminaries  went,  Stein's  picture  was 
carried  out  just  as  he  had  conceived  it.  The 
Beechcrofters  were  prevented  by  a  cordon  of 
guards  and  sheriff's  deputies  from  ascending 
the  steps  and  they  massed  solidly  at  the  foot  of 
them.  A  cluster  of  gasolene  flares  which  had 
been  used  during  building  operations  served  to 
light  the  spot  which  Stein  had  chosen  for  his  stage 
and  the  impressive  background  afforded  by  the 
temple  doorway. 

John  Chance's  temple  had  never  looked  lovelier, 
more  remote  from  prosaic,  material  fact,  more 
magical,  more  the  clear  substance  of  a  dream, 
than  in  the  mystery  of  this  June  night.  Its  mere 
beauty  could  have  won  Stein's  battle  for  him 
alone,  had  it  not  been  the  particular  manifes 
tation  of  his  alleged  power  that  was  under  suspi 
cion.  Even  as  it  was,  it  imposed  a  solemn  silence 
upon  the  crowd  that  waited  for  the  prophet's 
appearance. 

On  the  surface,  then,  everything  was  in  his 
favor.  The  night  was  windless,  dead  still;  and 
his  great  deep-toned  voice  —  a  perfect  instru 
ment  of  which  he  was  completely  master  — 
reached  and  enveloped  the  uttermost  fringes 
of  the  crowd.  His  dignified  manner  and  his 


The  Beechcrojt  Miracle  329 

rich,  sumptuous  diction  fitted  perfectly  with  all 
the  rest.  For  a  while  the  mere  impression  of 
it  all  was  strong  enough  to  hold  them. 

"Draw  near  and  hearken.  Through  the  hours 
of  this  night,  while  you  have  run  to  and  fro, 
wondering,  doubting,  listening  to  rumors  and 
lies  and  whispered  sayings,  I  have  stood  alone. 
I  would  have  comforted  you,  but  I  could  not. 
It  was  necessary  that  I  await  my  message.  Now, 
in  this  hour,  my  message  is  given  me. 

"  Listen,  ye  of  little  faith,  ye  who  have  already 
denied  me  unheard,  and  declared  my  gospel  a  lie, 
ye  who  have  fled  from  the  wall  at  the  first  cry 
of  the  trumpet,  who  have  turned  your  hands 
against  your  comrades,  who  would  stone  me  as 
your  forefathers  have  stoned  the  prophets  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world.  Listen,  for  my  mes 
sage  is  to  you. 

"And  listen,  also,  you  who  have  been  stead 
fast,  whose  faces  have  been  to  the  stars  though 
your  feet  have  stumbled.  My  message  shall 
bring  you  comfort. 

"As  for  you  others,  who  neither  believe  nor 
deny,  pretenders  and  the  dupes  of  your  own  pre 
tence,  I  know  your  works.  You  are  neither  hot 
nor  cold.  So,  then,  because  you  are  lukewarm  and 


33°  Comrade  John 

neither  cold  nor  hot,  I  will  spue  ye  out  of  my 
mouth.  Buy  gold  that  ye  may  be  rich,  and  rai 
ment  that  the  shame  of  your  nakedness  may  not 
appear,  and  depart  from  among  us. 

"You  to  whom  I  speak,  you  want  the  truth, 
whether  it  hurts  or  heals.  It  will  heal  at  last 
though  it  may  hurt  at  first.  Open  your  hearts 
to  it  then,  and  answer.  Was  it  my  gospel  that 
has  deceived  you,  or  your  own  denial  of  it?  I 
have  preached  a  gospel  of  toil.  Have  you  toiled  ?  " 

"Have  you?"  cried  a  voice  from  the  crowd. 

Really,  it  was  a  trap,  though  if  any  one 
had  set  it,  it  was  the  prophet  himself?  He 
was  betrayed  by  the  very  impressiveness  of 
the  scene,  the  very  silence  in  which  they  had 
begun  listening  to  him.  He  had  forgotten 
that  he  must  cow  down  a  multitude;  he 
fancied  he  was  preaching  a  sermon.  And  the 
jeering,  high-voiced  question  from  the  crowd 
staggered  him  like  a  blow.  "Have  you? 
How  much  toiling  did  you  do  on  the  temple?" 
He  had  no  answer  ready.  He  could  only  try 
to  go  on  with  his  discourse. 

"What  is  the  beauty  that  I  have  bidden  you 
attain?  Beauty  in  brick  and  stone,  or  beauty 
in  character?" 


The  Beechcroft  Miracle  331 

At  that  they  stopped  him  in  earnest.  A  mur 
mur,  rising  in  intensity  to  a  roar,  and  then  in 
pitch  to  a  sort  of  yelp,  swept  his  words  away. 
Then  in  the  electrical  silence  that  followed,  a 
dozen  voices  cried  out  to  know  what  had  become 
of  Comrade  John. 

"Every  religion  has  its  Judas  Iscariot,"  Stein 
shouted.  "He  has  escaped." 

A  man  shouldered  his  way  through  the  cordon 
of  guards,  sprang  up  two  or  three  of  the  steps, 
and  shouted  before  he  could  be  pulled  back, 
' '  Escaped !  With  your  help,  and  with  our  money ! ' ' 

Another  voice  came  from  the  heart  of  the  crowd. 
"He  hasn't  escaped.  They're  hiding  him  in  the 
temple.  Find  him  out!" 

By  that  time  Stein  had  lost  them  utterly,  and 
he  knew  it.  They  would  rush  him  in  another 
minute.  The  guards  might  be  able  to  hold  them 
for  as  long  as  that  but  hardly  for  longer.  Half 
involuntarily  he  turned  for  a  glance  back  at  the 
temple  doorway. 

Deep  in  the  shadow  of  it  he  saw  a  figure  clad 
in  dusky  yellow ;  Ellen,  who  had  heard,  who  was 
waiting  there,  no  doubt,  to  offer  him  the  alterna 
tive  of  victory  which  he  had  accepted.  At  the 
sight  of  her  he  turned  and  again  faced  the  crowd, 


332  Comrade  John 

but  it  was  too  late  now.  They  had  seen  the 
backward  glance,  had  understood  that  it  hinted 
flight.  The  hint  was  enough.  They  swept 
away  the  cordon  of  guards  and  came  surging 
up  the  steps. 

It  was  in  that  moment,  in  the  mere  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  that  the  true  miracle,  the  one  true 
miracle,  was  wrought  at  Beechcroft.  Upon  the 
shabby,  sham,  voluptuous  monster,  Stein,  there 
descended  suddenly,  in  this  extreme  instant,  the 
mantle  and  the  possession  of  true  prophecy.  In 
his  lying,  cowardly,  plausible  mouth,  he  tasted  the 
bitterness  of  truth  and  knew  that  he  must  utter  it. 

He  rushed  to  the  edge  of  the  steps  to  meet  the 
crowd  that  was  surging  up.  His  face,  dark  with 
excitement,  looked  fairly  black  in  the  shadow 
of  the  torches,  but  his  eyes  shone  like  lamps. 

"Stop  where  you  are  !"  he  bellowed.  With  all 
the  terrible  raucous  passion  in  his  voice,  there 
was,  mixed  up  in  it,  the  sound  of  a  gibing  laugh. 
Without  a  word  more,  he  stood  where  he  was, 
waiting  for  them  to  be  still,  and  while  he  waited 
the  tumult  died  away. 

"You  want  the  truth,  do  you?  Well,  you  shall 
have  it  now,  more  than  you  want.  This  religion 
of  mine  is  a  lie  from  the  first  word  to  the  last. 


The  Beechcrojt  Miracle  333 

"Listen,  you.  There  are  only  two  true  re 
ligions,  and  they're  both  old.  One  of  them  has 
got  a  cross  in  it,  and  it  tells  you  that  the  way  to 
save  your  life  is  to  give  it  away,  deny  it.  It 
isn't  my  religion,  and  I  don't  know  much  about 
it.  It  never  was  to  my  taste.  But  it's  a  true 
religion  for  such  as  care  for  its  terms.  And  the 
other  religion,  my  religion,  tells  you  to  get  what 
pleasure  you  can  out  of  what  comes  to  you,  and 
be  content  to  die  and  rot  when  your  time  comes. 
And  that's  a  true  religion  too.  A  real  man  can 
take  his  choice,  and  live  and  die  by  either.  He 
can  be  good  or  he  can  be  bad  by  either. 

"But  you,  fools,  haven't  the  self-denial  for  the 
one  nor  the  courage  for  the  other.  You  want  to  be 
told  that  you  can  play  it  both  ways.  So  either 
you  get  up  fake  religions  for  yourselves,  or  else  we 
professional  fakirs  get  them  up  for  you.  There'll 
be  new  ones  as  fast  as  the  old  ones  are  exploded 
so  long  as  there  are  enough  of  your  sort  of  milk 
sops  in  the  world  to  make  it  pay.  I  didn't  begin 
with  this  one.  I  began  at  the  bottom,  telling  for 
tunes  with  a  greasy  deck  of  cards  and  casting 
horoscopes.  And  I  found  out  that  all  people 
wanted — the  sort  of  people  who  came  to  me — was 
to  be  told  that  it  was  easy.  After  that  I  got  on. 


334  Comrade  John 

I  took  up  one  fake  after  another,  but  I  always 
made  them  pay.  And  when  I  had  got  to  know 
you  inside  out  I  wrote  my  book,  stole  it,  rather, 
from  another  man  and  softened  it  up  so  that  it 
would  be  easier  to  swallow.  I  knew  what  to 
tell  you.  God,  didn't  I  know !  I  told  you  that 
you  could  be  wise  without  studying,  and  that  you 
could  make  beautiful  things  without  learning 
a  trade,  and  that  you  could  get  the  fine  noble 
characters  by  doing  whatever  you  liked.  And 
you  made  a  prophet  of  me  for  it ! 

"That's  the  truth,  and  you've  got  it  good,  at  last. 
But  can  you  swallow  it?  Not  you.  There  are 
plenty  more  religions  as  good  for  you  as  mine. 
Go  to  the  one  that  tells  you  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  pleasure  and  no  such  thing  as  pain,  that 
believes  in  good  dinners  and  doesn't,  believe  in  the 
gout.  It  tells  you  to  dress  warm  and  sleep  soft, 
and  it  comforts  the  naked  and  the  homeless  by 
telling  them  that  pain  and  cold  and  sorrow  are 
all  a  mistake.  Go  over  there.  That's  the 
place  for  you.  Go  where  you  can  pat  your 
selves  on  the  back  and  call  it  Christian  Charity. 
Say  '  I  am  so  happy,  because  you  are  so  happy 
because  I  am  so  happy,'  until  you  bring  in 
the  millennium. 


The  Beechcroft  Miracle  335 

"If  there  is  a  place  for  you  to  go  when  you  are 
dead,  it'll  be  the  Fools'  Paradise.  You  couldn't 
understand  heaven  and  you  couldn't  get  into  hell. 
You  haven't  an  able-bodied  sin  among  you. 
Kill  me  as  I  stand  here;  it  might  make  men  of 
some  of  you.  I'm  a  man.  I'm  a  liar  and  a 
swindler  and  a  thief,  but  I'm  a  man  and  you  are 
just  lifelike  imitations.  Your  souls  are  celluloid 
and  your  passions  are  plaster  of  Paris.  You 
go  against  my  stomach.  I've  sickened  of  you. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  you." 

He  turned  at  that  and  strode  slowly  across  the 
broad  flagged  space  at  the  head  of  the  steps  and 
disappeared  in  the  temple  doorway,  careless,  it 
seemed,  whether  they  would  come  pouring  up 
after  him  and  trample  him  to  death  or  not. 

The  scene  had  a  curious  little  anticlimax. 
There  was  an  indecisive  movement  in  the  crowd 
which  might  have  developed  into  a  rush,  but  was 
checked  by  the  sheriff.  He  was  a  typical  native 
of  those  parts,  a  thin,  cautious  man,  with  a  high- 
pitched,  nasal,  matter-of-fact  voice. 

"There  ain't  any  one  escaped  from  the  temple 
yet,"  he  said,  "and  there  ain't  a-going  to.  If 
there's  any  man  or  any  money  in  the  temple  now 
it's  a-going  to  be  there  in  the  morning.  And 


336  Comrade  John 

there  ain't  any  more  of  you  going  to  get  in.  Clear 
the  steps." 

He  was  obeyed  a  bit  sheepishly  on  the  part 
of  the  leaders,  and  presently  a  section  of  the  crowd 
broke  off  and  went  around  to  watch  the  other 
temple  door. 

The  Beechcroft  miracle  bewildered  none  of  the 
disciples  so  much  as  it  bewildered  the  prophet 
himself.  He  walked  into  the  temple  like  a  man 
drunken,  and  on  encountering  Ellen  back  in  the 
shadow,  at  first  only  snarled  at  her  inarticulately. 
Then,  getting  some  possession  of  himself,  he 
ordered  her,  thickly,  to  be  off. 

"Go  out  to  the  others,  where  you  belong,"  he 
commanded.  "You've  got  no  business  here." 

"I  made  you  a  promise,"  she  said,  and  her 
voice  showed  how  profoundly  his  words  from  the 
temple  steps  had  shaken  her.  "I  made  it  and 
I  mean  to  keep  it.  I'm  gladder  to  keep  it  than 
I  dreamed  I  could  be  when  I  made  it.  Don't 
try  to  send  me  away." 

The  flame  of  prophecy  had  died  out  of  him 
utterly,  and  it  left  him  spent  indeed.  He  had 
made  four  trials  of  strength  since  sundown; 
with  Cynthia,  with  Chance,  with  Ellen,  and  with 
the  disciples,  and  he  had  met  four  defeats.  All 


The  Beechcroft  Miracle  337 

that  was  left  of  him  now  was  a  nerveless,  badly 
frightened  rascal  whose  one  idea  was  flight. 
Ellen  was  stupidly  in  the  way.  He  would  have 
struck  her  senseless  there  on  the  temple  floor, 
but  he  lacked  the  courage  to  do  it. 

"Have  you  got  that  revolver  with  you?"  he 
asked  suddenly.  "Give  it  to  me." 

She  obeyed  him  without  demur,  and  the  feeling 
of  it  in  his  hands  steadied  him  a  little.  "If 
you  will  come,  come,  then,"  he  added.  "On 
your  head  be  it." 

With  no  more  words  he  crossed  the  temple 
hurriedly,  almost  at  a  run,  and  led  the  way  across 
the  robing-room  and  down  the  stairs  into  the 
cellar.  Once  there,  out  of  danger  of  immediate 
pursuit,  he  stood  quite  still  for  a  minute  or  two 
listening,  and,  she  guessed  from  his  face,  form 
ing  some  sort  of  plan. 

"We  ought  to  have  bolted  the  main  door,"  he 
said  presently.  "The  other  one  is  locked  fast 
enough."  Then  without  answering  her  ques 
tioning  frown  he  commanded,  "Go  and  bolt  it. 
The  bottom  bolts  will  do.  That  will  give  us  all 
the  time  we  need." 

Rather  dubiously  and  very  slowly  she  turned 
to  do  his  bidding,  for  craft  of  the  meanest  sort 


338  Comrade  John 

leered  out  through  the  mask  of  stolidity  into  which 
he  had  composed  his  face.  But,  though  doubt 
ing,  she  still  obeyed,  his  old  power  and  her  own 
indifference  working  together. 

The  moment  she  disappeared  he  stripped  off 
his  toga  and  his  tunic  and  slipped  the  revolver 
into  one  of  the  side  pockets  of  the  sack  coat  he 
had  on  underneath.  Then,  with  ever  increasing 
haste,  he  fetched  a  barrel  of  turpentine  out  of 
the  lumber-room,  broached  it  with  an  axe, 
emptied  it  over  the  heap  of  litter  at  the  foot  of 
the  air  shaft,  and  set  it  off.  The  plan  was  perfect 
if  only  there  was  time  enough.  The  fire  must 
make  headway  enough  before  Ellen's  return  to 
lead  her  at  least  to  half  believe  that  he  had 
perished  in  it.  Whether  she  escaped  or  not 
didn't  matter.  If  she  did  she  would  tell  the  story, 
which  would  be  well.  If  she  did  not,  and  they 
ever  found  her  there,  it  would  only  lend  color 
to  the  theory  that  he  had  met  his  death  in  the 
same  way. 

But  it  was  hard  to  calculate  the  time  just  right. 
He  lingered  by  the  blaze,  throwing  more  fuel  on 
it,  making  doubly  sure  for  just  a  little  too  long. 
He  was  in  the  very  act  of  preparing  to  climb  down 
into  the  conduit  when  she  came  silently  upon  him. 


The  Beechcroft  Miracle  339 

His  attitude  told  unmistakably  what  he  meant 
to  do. 

"Is  this  the  way  John  Chance  took  Cynthia?" 
she  asked  quietly. 

"Damn  you!"  he  shouted.  "Why  did  you 
come  back?  But  you'll  never  go  out  again,  to 
prate  of  what  you  saw.  I  shall  be  dead  to  them. 
It's  on  your  own  head  now.  Do  you  understand  ?" 
The  malignity  of  his  face  would  have  made  his 
intent  clear  without  the  pointing  revolver. 

"I  understand,"  she  said.  "I  understand  you 
at  last,  completely  and  altogether."  And  she 
faced  him  as  still  and  unflinching  as  if  she  had 
been  cut  in  marble. 

But  the  hand  that  held  the  revolver  dropped  at 
his  side.  With  the  other  he  wiped  his  forehead. 
He  cried  out  with  a  sort  of  sob,  "I  can't  do  it 
while  you  stand  there  looking  at  me." 

"Kill  me  as  I  turn  and  walk  away,  then,"  she 
said. 

But  all  he  did  was  to  curse  obscenely,  and  put 
the  revolver  back  into  his  pocket.  Then  he 
scrambled  down  the  iron  ladder  and  went  splash 
ing  away  up  the  conduit. 

Through  the  thickening  clouds  of  dense  black 
smoke  Ellen  mounted  the  stairs.  By  the  time 


34°  Comrade  John 

she  had  half  crossed  the  burning  auditorium, 
those  outside  had  got  the  doors  open,  but  no  one 
tried  to  enter,  and  the  guards  herded  the  crowd 
back  to  the  foot  of  the  temple  steps. 

There  was  a  great  shout  when  Ellen  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  as  if  out  of  the  midst  of  the  flames. 
She  descended  the  long  stairway  without  once 
looking  back  and  she  did  not  seem  aware  of  the 
crowd  that  pressed  about  her,  full  of  excited 
questions,  when  she  reached  the  foot  of  them. 
So  they  made  a  lane  for  her  and  she  walked 
through,  and  disappeared  at  last  within  the  door 
way  of  her  own  cottage. 

For  another  hour,  perhaps,  the  little  colony 
of  men  and  women  who,  up  to  yesterday,  had 
fondly  believed  that  by  toiling  without  weariness 
they  were  achieving  beauty,  stood  and  watched 
the  apotheosis  of  John  Chance's  dream  miracle, 
the  great  cluster  of  " cathedral  candles"  burn 
ing  at  last.  They  watched  until,  in  the  early 
dawn,  they  saw  the  cluster  of  candles  guttered, 
and  thanked  the  heavy  smudge  that  rose  about 
its  base  for  veiling  its  pathetic  nakedness. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

O   MISTRESS   MINE 

IN  the  process  of  eluding  the  buzzing  Beech- 
crofters  early  in  the  evening,  Chance  had  been 
so  unfortunate  as  to  elude  also  his  lieutenants, 
Bill  Hemenway  and  Henry  Baumann.  They  had 
finished  packing  at  the  shack  before  he  arrived 
from  Ellen's  back  door,  and  had  set  out  in  search 
of  him.  They  went  to  his  house  and  then  to  their 
own,  and  after  that  they  wandered  rather  aim 
lessly  among  the  shifting  crowds  in  the  lower 
valley  until  the  futility  of  this  sort  of  search  oc 
curred,  at  about  the  same  time,  to  both  of  them. 
Then  they  hurried  back  to  the  shack. 

Here  they  found  a  clew  to  him.  Henry,  climb 
ing  from  force  of  habit  to  the  high  stool  that  stood 
before  his  drafting  table  found  six  loaded  revolver 
cartridges,  and  the  next  minute  Bill,  looking  in  its 
accustomed  place  for  it,  discovered  the  absence 
of  the  revolver. 

34i 


342  Comrade  John 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  blankly 
for  a  moment,  and  then  Bill  beat  the  drafting 
board  with  his  clenched  fist  and  broke  out  in  a 
sort  of  wail. 

"Oh,  we're  the  prize  fools  of  this  whole  fool 
place.  Don't  you  see  what  it  means?  He's 
been  here  looking  for  us  to  help  him  and  we 
weren't  here !  And  now  he's  gone  out  to  mix 
it  up  with  that  big  fat  devil,  Stein,  with  nothing 
but  my  old  empty  thirty-eight  to  pull  him  through. 
And  we  don't  know  where  he  is.  What  are  we 
going  to  do  about  it?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know.  What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

Henry  was  hardly  less  perturbed  than  he,  but 
his  Teutonic  surface  was  much  more  placid. 
"We  are  fools,  yess,"  he  said.  "The  wool  has 
gone  to  our  wits.  But  we  will  not  be  fools  again. 
We  shall  stay  here  and  wait,  since  we  do  not  know 
where  to  go.  And,  after  all,"  he  added,  "it 
cannot  be  so  fery  serious  or  he  would  not  have 
taken  these  useful  little  trifles  out  of  your  gun." 

"Are  you  blind?"  cried  Bill.  "Can't  you 
see  that  that's  just  what  makes  it  serious?  If 
you're  going  up  against  a  man  you  can  shoot 
and  you've  got  a  gun  with  the  stuff  in  it,  why  then 
it  isn't  serious  for  you.  It's  serious  for  him.  If 


O  Mistress  Mine  343 

there  was  shells  in  that  gun,  I'd  let  Stein  do  the 
worrying.  But  Mr.  Chance  must  be  up  against 
a  proposition  where  he  can't  shoot.  That's 
why  he  took  the  shells  out.  He  knows  that  if 
you  can't  do  anything  but  bluff  an  empty  gun's 
a  damned  sight  better  weapon  than  a  loaded  one. 
That's  what  he's  up  against,"  Bill  went  on,  and 
now  his  voice  rose  to  a  pitch  of  frenzied  exas 
peration.  "That's  what  he's  up  against,  and  here 
we  sit  like  a  pair  of  fools,  talking.  Can't  you 
think  of  nothing  better  to  do  than  that !  Talk  — • 
talk  — talk!  Will  our  talk  hurt  Stein  any?" 

"No,  talking  iss  no  good,"  said  Henry  simply. 
"I  do  not  wish  to  talk.  But  waiting  iss  all  we 
can  do,  and  I  will  wait." 

Bill  acknowledged  the  justice  of  this  rebuke 
with  a  reluctant  grunt  of  apology  and  they 
settled  to  the  task  of  waiting,  Henry  sitting  quite 
still  upon  his  high  stool,  while  Bill  fumed  and 
sputtered  all  about  the  room.  They  managed 
to  preserve  this  state  of  inertia  until  they  heard 
the  clamorous  ringing  of  bells  down  at  the  temple, 
Stein's  summons  to  the  disciples  to  gather  to  hear 
his  message.  Both  men  hurried  to  the  door  at 
the  sound  and  stood  there  looking  at  each  other. 
It  was  Bill  who  spoke. 


344  Comrade  John 

"Well,  that  means  that  there's  something  going 
on  down  there,  anyway.  And  if  Mr.  Chance  is 
still  in  Beechcroft  at  all,  it's  where  there's  some 
thing  doing  that  we'll  rind  him." 

It  was  by  no  means  a  water-tight  sort  of  argu 
ment  and  Henry  shook  his  head  over  it,  but  when 
Bill  added,  "Stay  here,  then,  if  you  like,"  and 
set  off  at  a  run  down  the  road,  Henry  was  only 
a  pace  or  two  behind  him. 

They  stayed  in  the  outer  fringe  of  the  crowd 
before  the  temple  and  from  this  point  of  vantage 
heard  both  of  Stein's  speeches.  Bill,  indeed, 
started  forward  angrily  on  hearing  the  prophet 
say  that  Chance  had  made  off  with  the  money, 
and,  a  moment  later,  would  have  joined  in  the 
rush  for  the  temple  steps  had  not  Henry,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  a  casual  black  eye,  forcibly 
restrained  him. 

"What  will  you  do,"  the  quiet  draftsman 
urged,  "with  your  elbows  clamped  against  your 
ribs  in  the  middle  of  that  silly  mob?  If  there 
should  be  anything  to  do,  could  you  do  it  then? 
This  rushing  is  foolishness,  anyway." 

Bill  saw  the  point  at  once  and  promptly  sub 
sided.  As  it  turned  out,  there  was  something 
to  do  in  a  very  few  minutes.  Stein  finished  his 


O  Mistress  Mine  345 

second  speech  and  strode  back  into  the  temple, 
and  the  sheriff  announced  from  the  steps  that 
both  doors  were  guarded  and  that  no  one  in  the 
temple  would  be  allowed  to  escape.  Bill  whis 
pered  in  Henry's  ear,  "The  big  pipe,"  and  with 
out  further  words  the  two  men  slipped  through 
the  fringes  of  the  crowd,  scrambled  up  through 
the  shrubbery  above  the  road,  and  made  their 
way  around  to  the  mouth  of  the  conduit.  They 
had  been  right  in  their  surmise  that  no  one  would 
be  on  watch  here  and  they  felt  pretty  confident 
that  Stein  had  not  yet  had  time  to  escape.  They 
stationed  themselves  just  within  the  mouth  of 
the  conduit,  one  on  each  of  the  ledges  that  ran 
along  above  the  level  of  the  water. 

The  upshot  of  this  manoeuvre  was  that  as 
Stein  came  splashing  along,  his  arms  were  sud 
denly  pinioned  fast  and  he  was  subjected  to  a 
long  stare  from  the  single  bright  eye  of  an  electric 
pocket  torch.  His  great  strength  might  have 
made  him  somewhere  near  a  match  for  his  two 
captors  if  he  had  any  fight  left  in  him,  but  as  he 
stood  he  was  perfectly  nerveless  and  offered  no 
resistance  whatever.  Even  taking  his  revolver 
away  from  him  was  an  unnecessary  formality. 

Bill  examined  the  weapon  and  was  a  good  deal 


346  Comrade  John 

relieved  to  find,  in  the  first  place,  that  it  was  not 
the  one  Chance  had  borrowed,  and  in  the  second, 
that  it  contained  its  full  complement  of  loaded 
shells  and  showed  no  traces  of  having  been  re 
cently  discharged.  He  pocketed  the  revolver 
and  then  ran  his  hands  lightly  all  over  Stein  in  a 
cursory  search  for  another  bulky  package  which 
he  expected  to  find  there.  Neither  he  nor  Henry 
doubted  that  a  considerable  portion  of  the  cash 
profits  of  the  Beechcroft  enterprise  was  concealed 
upon  Stein's  person.  So  far  not  a  word  had  been 
spoken.  Stein  was  making  a  queer  sobbing 
sort  of  noise,  but  that  was  all. 

"We  must  take  him  to  the  shack,"  said  Henry 
presently.  "Here  we  can  do  nothing." 

They  took  an  arm  apiece  accordingly,  charged 
up  the  steep  bank  with  him  and  around  the  turn 
ing  of  the  road  to  the  shack.  They  bundled 
him  into  the  model  room  and  then,  with  no  super 
fluous  ceremony  and  no  words  at  all,  they  stripped 
him  naked  and  searched  every  article  of  clothing 
upon  him.  The  only  valuables  they  found  were 
his  watch  and  a  sum  of  money  amounting  to 
about  seventy-five  dollars. 

It  was  a  serious  disappointment  to  them,  for 
they  had  been  confident  that  they  would  be  able 


O  Mistress  Mine  347 

to  present  Stein  before  the  disciples,  either  in  per 
son  or  otherwise,  as  they  might  determine,  as  the 
real  culprit,  caught  in  the  act  of  making  off  with 
the  spoils.  They  cared  nothing  either  about  him 
or  about  his  followers  and  would  not  have  inter 
fered  in  the  matter  at  all  had  it  not  been  the 
simplest  and  shortest  way  of  clearing  their  own 
chief  of  the  charge  Stein  had  flung  at  him. 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  gruffly,  "put  on  your  clothes. 
Oh,  yes,  you  can  have  your  watch  and  your 
money,  too.  We're  not  pickpockets.  We'll  let 
you  know  in  five  minutes  what  we're  going  to 
do  with  you.  Come  out  here  into  the  other  room, 
Henry." 

So  they  turned  the  key  on  him  and  withdrew 
to  confer.  The  telephone  bell  rang  before  they 
could  exchange  a  word,  however,  and  Henry, 
being  nearest,  took  up  the  receiver.  His  half  of 
the  conversation  was  mostly  monosyllables,  and 
Bill  nearly  perished  with  impatience  waiting 
to  learn  what  it  was  all  about. 

"It's  the  man  who  keeps  the  hotel  at  the  Junc 
tion,"  Henry  explained  when  he  had  hung  up. 
"Mr.  Chance  had  Claude  come  up  with  the 
Panhard  and  wait  there  till  he  should  send  for 
him." 


348  Comrade  John 

"Well,  well,  I  know  that,"  Bill  interrupted. 

"Claude  talked  with  Mr.  Chance  a  couple  of 
hours  ago  and  started  out  with  the  car  in  a  great 
hurry.  He  has  just  been  brought  in,  unconscious, 
with  a  broken  head,  and  the  car  is  five 
miles  out  on  the  State  Road,  upside  down  in  a 
ditch." 

"And  Mr.  Chance  is—"  Bill  began  with 
a  roar,  but  at  a  nod  from  Henry  reduced  it 
suddenly  to  a  whisper — "is  waiting  somewhere 
for  Claude  to  turn  up,  and  he  won't  come.  And 
here  we  are  again,  about  as  much  help  to  him  as 
a  pair  of  Beechcrofters." 

"We  have  one  job  on  our  hands,"  said  Henry, 
with  another  nod  toward  the  model-room  door. 
"We  have  to  make  the  fat  man  tell  where  he  has 
hidden  the  money  that  he  says  Mr.  Chance  stole. 
If  we  can  do  that  job  quickly  enough  we  shall 
save  Mr.  Chance  from  being  arrested,  wherever 
he  is." 

While  he  spoke,  Bill  suddenly  began  sniffing 
the  air,  then  sprang  to  the  doorway,  and,  without 
a  word  of  explanation,  rushed  off  down  the  road 
toward  the  temple.  Henry  cast  a  reluctant 
glance  at  the  other  door  and  decided  that  he  had 
better  wait  where  he  was.  When  Bill  came  back, 


O  Mistress  Mine  349 

at  the  end  of  hardly  more  than  five  minutes,  his 
face  was  all  lighted  up  with  confidence. 

"We've  got  that  fat  prophet  now  where  we 
want  him,"  he  said.  "He  set  the  temple  afire 
before  he  started  to  make  his  get-away  through 
the  big  pipe,  and  the  disciples  are  thinking  by 
now  that  he  must  have  gone  up  in  smoke  with  it." 

Without  a  moment's  pause  he  unlocked  the 
model-room  door  and  went  in,  Henry  following. 
Stein  sat  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  an 
inert,  sodden-looking  mountain  of  flesh. 

"Listen  to  me,"  Bill  commanded  sharply. 
"You're  going  to  tell  us  now  where  you've  hidden 
the  money  you  said  Mr.  Chance  had  run  off 
with." 

Stein  did  not  look  up.  "You  know  as  well  as 
I  do,"  he  growled  half  articulately. 

"No;  wait  a  bit,"  said  Bill.  "I  understand 
your  game.  You're  dead.  After  that  last  speech 
of  yours  on  the  temple  steps  dead  is  about  all  you 
could  be.  If  you  want  to  stay  dead,  you'll  tell 
us  where  you've  hidden  that  money  —  you'll 
show  us  where  you've  hidden  it.  If  you  do  that 
and  do  it  quick  enough,  we'll  let  you  go  and  you 
can  be  as  dead  as  you  please.  If  you  don't,  we'll 
take  your  clothes  off  and  put  you  into  a  tunic  and 


350  Comrade  John 

throw  you  down  into  the  lower  valley  for  the  dis 
ciples  to  play  with.  And  that,  let  me  tell  you,  will 
be  a  damned  unpleasant  sort  of  resurrection." 

"Find  Chance  if  you  want  to  find  the  money," 
said  Stein,  rather  more  earnestly  than  he  had 
spoken  before.  "It's  wherever  he  is." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Bill,  "if  that's  what  you  want, 
you'll  get  it.  Get  it  good."  And  he  made  as  if 
to  suit  the  action  to  the  word. 

"It  may  be  true,  what  he  says,"  interposed 
Henry. 

"What!"  roared  Bill,  wheeling  upon  him,  all 
ablaze  in  an  instant. 

"Oh,  not  so  much  red  pepper!"  Henry  ex 
claimed.  Bill  was  getting  on  his  nerves.  "I 
shall  not  begin  to  think  that  Mr.  Chance  is  a 
thief  until  long  after  you  are  convinced  of  it,  and 
that  will  be  never.  But  he  may  have  the  money 
without  having  stolen  it.  He  may  well  have  taken 
it  away  from  this  gross  rascal." 

Bill  grunted  assent  with  obvious  disrelish  and 
turned  upon  Stein  again.  "  As  Mr.  Baumann  says, 
it  may  be  true.  But  it's  up  to  you  to  make  us 
believe  that  it's  true.  And  if  you  don't  succeed, 
we'll  throw  you  to  the  disciples  first  and  go 
hunting  for  Mr.  Chance  afterwards." 


O  Mistress  Mine  351 

Thus  prodded  on,  Stein  told  his  story,  truly 
and  circumstantially,  though  with  many  intervals 
of  obscene  reviling  against  his  captors  and  Chance 
and  the  disciples.  He  related  how  he  had  enticed 
Cynthia  into  the  steel-room,  hypnotized  her,  and 
made  her  conceal  the  money  on  her  person; 
how  Chance  had  rescued  her  and  had  uncon 
sciously  carried  off  the  money  with  her.  He 
added  that  she  could  have  no  recollection  what 
ever  of  having  hidden  it. 

"Did  he  get  out  of  the  temple  by  the  pipe, 
too?"  Henry  asked,  and  Stein  nodded  assent. 

Both  men  were  inclined  to  believe  the  story 
true.  "  We'll  just  keep  you  with  us,  though,  until 
we  find  him,"  said  Bill.  "And  we'll  go  through 
the  formality  of  tying  up  your  hands  before  we 
start  out  on  the  road  with  you.  There's  a  strap 
in  the  outer  office,  Henry,  that  will  just  do 
the  trick." 

The  nerveless  way  in  which  Stein  had  sub 
mitted  to  capture  in  the  conduit  had  misled  them 
both.  There  was  no  symptom  now  of  any 
change  in  him.  He  stood  up  and  waited  sub 
missively  while  Henry  searched  for  the  strap, 
and  when  he  returned  with  it,  meekly  held  out 
his  hands  in  front  of  him. 


352  Comrade  John 

And  then  in  a  flash  he  seized  Bill  by  the  collar 
and  flung  him  half  across  the  room,  butted  Henry 
out  of  the  way,  and  was  gone.  When  they  had 
got  to  their  feet  again  and  rushed  to  the  door, 
the  night  had  swallowed  him. 

"If  Mr.  Chance  ever  dies,"  said  Bill,  reflec 
tively,  "it  will  be  an  asylum  for  the  feeble-minded 
that  they'll  have  to  find  for  us.  While  he's 
around  to  tell  us  exactly  what  to  do,  we  get  to 
thinking  we're  most  too  smart  to  live,  and  he 
has  to  leave  us  to  ourselves  for  about  two  moves 
before  we  give  ourselves  away." 

Henry  lent  no  ear  to  this  discourse;  he  was 
studying  a  map  of  the  valley  that  hung  on  the 
wall.  "If  they  got  out  of  the  temple  through  the 
conduit,  they  took  the  road  through  the  notch. 
And  if  Mr.  Chance  was  expecting  Claude  to  come 
by  the  State  Road,  they  would  go  to  the  nearest 
point  of  intersection.  And  that  is  Excelsior 
Siding." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Bill,  "we  may  as  well  miss 
him  there  as  anywhere  else."  And  so  they  set 
out  together. 

"Here's  the  end  of  Beechcroft,"  John  Chance 
had  said,  and  tapped  with  his  foot  the  mile-stone 


O  Mistress  Mine  353 

that  marked  it.  After  that  he  and  Cynthia  went 
on  through  the  dark  wood  road  in  silence.  But 
at  last  the  walls  of  pine  and  fir  fell  away  from 
the  flanks  of  the  trail  and  revealed  to  them  the 
expanse  of  the  night.  The  last  quarter  of  a 
moon  hung  an  hour  high  above  the  ridge  of 
Saddle  Mountain,  lighting  the  valley  slantwise 
and  most  mysteriously.  The  air  was  languorous, 
perfumed,  sensuous,  and  yet  pervaded  with 
something  of  the  cool  innocence  of  early  spring. 
The  valley,  spread  out  beneath  their  feet,  lay 
drenched  in  dew,  drenched  in  slumber.  They 
halted  involuntarily  and  stood  gazing  at  it; 
without  the  conscious  volition  of  either,  they 
drew  close  together  and  stood  hand  in  hand. 

It  was  Chance  who  broke  the  contact,  abruptly 
and  with  a  sort  of  voiceless  laugh  that  made  her 
wince. 

"The  mockery  of  it,"  he  explained.  "If  cir 
cumstances  ever  conspire  to  laugh,  they're  doing 
it  now.  A  night  like  this,  and  you  here  within 
hand's  reach  —  and  I,  with  what  might  have  been, 
for  consolation.  I  was  tricked,  for  a  minute, 
into  forgetting." 

She  drew  a  step  or  two  away  from  him.  After 
a  moment,  with  a  sudden  air  of  purpose,  she 

2A 


354  Comrade  John 

crossed  the  road  and  seated  herself  on  a  fallen 
log.  Chance  stood  back  and  watched  her; 
the  phrase,  "her  infinite  variety,"  came  unbidden 
to  his  mind.  She  seemed  a  different  creature 
altogether,  both  from  the  girl  on  the  Boulevard 
in  Paris,  and  from  the  goddess  on  the  terrace  at 
Beechcroft.  About  her  now,  in  defiance  of  the 
wistful  mystery  of  the  night,  there  was  something 
clean-cut,  alert,  efficient.  It  was  in  the  poise  of 
her  head  with  its  trim  sailor  hat  and  veil,  in  the 
forward  tilt  of  her  flat  back  and  erect  shoulders. 
She  was  a  person  who  knew  she  had  something 
hard  to  do  and  felt  fully  competent  to  do  it. 
The  change  had  come  so  suddenly,  he  felt  it 
almost  incredible  that  it  was  only  a  moment  since 
her  small  gloved  palm  had  lain  against  his,  or 
that  she  had  ever  done  his  bidding  simply  because 
he  had  commanded  her. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  she  said,  " — tell  me 
quite  simply  and  fully,  as  if  I  didn't  understand 
at  all,  about  that  day  of  ours  on  the  terrace. 
I  mean  after  you  had  come  back  from  talking 
with  the  man  on  the  hillside.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  then  what  a  fraud  Mr.  Stein's  religion  was, 
and  the  part  you  had  in  it?" 

" Don't  you  understand?" 


O  Mistress  Mine  355 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  she  repeated. 

"Why,  I  suppose — "  he  began,  slowly,  " — I 
think  it  was  because  I  saw  in  your  face  that  you 
would  forgive  me.  I  saw  that  if  I  told  I  should 
be  'peaching'  —  that's  the  thieves'  word  — 
peaching  on  Stein  for  a  reward." 

"The  reward  being  me?" 

"  Yes.  I  hadn't  given  him  away  before,  though 
I'd  known  for  a  long  time  how  dangerous  a  thing 
the  fraud  was.  I'd  seen  its  effects  on  one  person 
—  a  woman,  too  —  and  I  pitied  her,  but  my 
pity  did  not  lead  me  to  throw  up  my  job.  I  kept 
right  ahead  with  it.  I  didn't  think  of  exposing 
Stein  until  I  saw  it  was  the  way  to  win  you." 

"Was  Ellen  the  woman?  Was  it  true  — 
what  she  told  me  one  day?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  shortly.  She  gave  a  little 
shudder  of  disgust,  and  he  went  quickly  on. 

"I  saw  that  the  only  thing  that  could  give  me 
the  right  to  expose  Stein,  would  be  to  give  you 
up.  I  was  too  much  of  a  coward  to  do  that, 
even  with  Ellen's  tragedy  right  before  my  eyes. 
I  kept  hoping  that  you'd  come  to  see  through 
him  yourself  and  go  away.  If  you  did,  I  thought 
I  could  give  back  my  share  of  the  loot  and  go  to 
work  at  an  honest  job,  and  ask  you  to  forgive  me. 


356  Comrade  John 

I  —  I  shirked  paying  the  price ;  I  suppose  that 
is  the  way  to  put  it  in  a  word." 

"I  being  the  price,"  she  commented.  "But 
at  last  you  made  up  your  mind  to  pay  me  for  the 
sake  of  saving  me.  That's  the  way  you  would 
put  it,  I  suppose?" 

Anger  spoke  undisguised  in  her  tone  now,  but 
"Yes,"  was  the  only  word  he  found  to  make  her 
an  answer  with. 

"And  now  that  I've  been  paid,"  she  pursued, 
relentlessly,  "what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  me?" 

"I  telephoned  for  my  motor  before  I  went  up 
to  the  temple  to-night,"  he  said  absently.  "I 
ordered  it  to  come  down  here  to  Excelsior  Siding. 
It  surely  is  there  by  now.  It  will  take  you  where- 
ever  you  wish  to  go." 

"That  is  to  say,  you've  saved  me  from  the 
results  of  my  folly,  as  you  did  before  in  Paris. 
And  now,  once  more,  you're  sending  me  off 
to  try  again  —  sending  me  back  to  Aunt — " 
She  broke  off  short  and  then  laughed.  "Do 
you  realize  that  we  went  off  and  forgot  all  about 
Aunt  Augusta?  That  seems  to  be  getting  rather 
a  habit  of  mine.  She  must  be  having  a  bad  night 
about  me,  poor  dear.  —  But  suppose  that 
Aunt  Augusta  stays  by  the  new  religion,  becomes 


O  Mistress  Mine  357 

a  disciple  of  Comrade  Samuel  Hobbema?  He'll 
be  the  successor,  I  suppose.  Shall  I  do  that? 
Or  shall  I  go  back  to  Ohio,  where  I  belong? 
And  'settle  down,'  as  they  say,  and  marry  — 
Oh,  there's  a  man  there.  He's  the  banker's  son 
and  he  went  to  Harvard  and  he  doesn't  care  for 
business  and  thinks  he's  misunderstood.  He'd 
ask  me  again,  I  think." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stood  facing  him. 
"Didn't  you  ever  —  ever  once  —  think  of  me 
as  anything  but  a  price  that  could  be  paid,  or  a 
reward  that  could  be  had  ?  Didn't  it  ever  occur 
to  you,  for  only  a  minute,  that  I  was  a  human 
person  with  life  on  my  hands;  a  person  who 
could  love  and  hate,  and  be  hurt  or  be  made 
happy?  Didn't  you  ever  get  even  a  glimpse 
of  my  side  of  it?" 

And  to  that  he  could  make  no  proper  answer 
at  all,  just  a  long  shudder  which  shook  him  from 
head  to  heel,  compounded  partly  of  cold  —  he 
had  been  wet  to  the  waist  for  hours  —  partly 
of  complete  exhaustion,  partly  of  an  overwhelm 
ing  bitterness  of  spirit.  She  stood  looking  at  him 
for  a  moment  and  it  was  given  her  then  to  see 
him  as  he  truly  was.  He  looked  small,  some 
how,  and  utterly  tired,  dejected,  beaten. 


358  Comrade  John 

She  turned  suddenly  away  from  him.  "Oh, 
what  a  savage  sort  of  heathen  brute  I  am!  I 
suppose  it's  because  I'm  a  woman.  If  we  changed 
places  —  if  I  had  been  doing  for  you  half  of  what 
you  have  done  for  me  —  if  I'd  risked  my  repu 
tation  and  my  life  for  you,  if  I'd  had  no  thought 
but  of  you  for  days,  and  no  sleep  because  of  you 
for  nights,  and  after  it  all  you  had  seen  me  stand 
ing  before  you,  so  tired  and  so  discouraged,  would 
you  have  lashed  me  without  mercy,  just  because 
I  had  hurt  your  pride  a  little  ?  And  your  burned 
hand  —  I'd  even  forgotten  that." 

She  stripped  off  her  gloves  and  pressed  her 
handkerchief  down  into  the  wet  grass.  "It 
will  feel  cool,  anyway,"  she  said,  taking  the  hand 
in  hers.  The  action  was  almost  brusque,  as  a 
trained  nurse  might  have  done  it. 

"I'd  forgotten  the  hand,  myself,"  he  said 
dully.  "It's  not  painful." 

She  bent  down  over  it  and  brushed  the  palm 
ever  so  gently  with  her  lips.  That  galvanized 
him  again ;  he  almost  snatched  it  away  from  her. 
But  as  he  looked  at  her  even  the  faint  moonlight 
was  enough  to  show  him  that  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,"  he  said 
unsteadily. 


O  Mistress  Mine  359 

At  that  she  sobbed  outright  and  for  an  instant 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes.  When  he  could 
see  her  again,  she  was  smiling.  "It  wasn't  that 
that  made  the  tears  come,"  she  said.  "Let's 
go  on  to  Excelsior  Siding.  Is  it  very  far?" 

"A  mile  or  two;  not  more,"  he  assured  her. 
"And  I  think  the  car  is  sure  to  be  there  waiting 
for  you." 

"Automobiles  have  been  known  to  break  down, 
haven't  they?" 

"Well,  at  the  worst,  a  west  bound  milk 
train  makes  a  stop  at  the  siding  about 
five  o'clock.  It  connects  with  civilization 
about  twenty  miles  away,  over  on  the  D. 
&  M." 

"And  that's  in  the  general  direction  of  Ohio, 
isn't  it?"  she  said.  But  there  was  a  flavor  of 
kindly  humor  in  her  voice. 

They  walked  all  the  way  to  the  siding  without 
another  word,  and  yet,  on  her  part,  the  silence 
somehow  was  of  a  friendly,  unembarrassed  sort. 
Once  he  stumbled  and  she  caught  his  arm  quickly 
and  strongly  enough  to  save  him  a  fall ;  when  she 
had  steadied  him  she  withdrew  her  hand  so 
deliberately  that  its  lingering  turned  almost  into 
a  little  caress. 


360  Comrade  John 

At  last  they  reached  their  journey's  end,  crossed 
the  meagre  little  pair  of  rails  which  marked  the 
path  of  the  Kinderkill  Valley  railroad,  and  brought 
up  rather  blankly  at  the  little  shed  and  the  load 
ing  platform,  piled  high  with  the  bales  which  pro 
vided  a  name  for  the  siding.  There  was  no  sign 
of  life  about  the  place. 

"Well,  this  is  the  time  it  happened,"  said 
Chance.  "The  car  is  either  lost  or  broken  down 
for  it  should  have  been  here  an  hour  ago." 

"Is  this  all  there  is  here?"  she  asked,  com 
prising  Excelsior  Siding  in  a  small,  trivial  gesture. 

"There's  a  power-house  around  the  curve, 
but  the  engineer — "  He  lost  the  thread  of  the 
sentence,  then  rallied  his  wits  and  recovered  it. 
"What  I  mean  is,  that  in  the  circumstances  it's 
as  well,  perhaps,  that  they  didn't  know  you're 
here.  The  car  will  come  before  long,  I  hope, 
and  for  that  matter,  the  train,  too.  It's  nearly 
morning.  And  I  can  contrive  to  make  you  com 
fortable  while  you're  waiting." 

He  clambered  up  on  the  loading  platform  and 
began  pulling  to  pieces  a  bale  of  the  shavings. 
With  this,  a  tarpaulin,  and  a  piece  of  burlap  sack 
ing,  he  contrived  a  sort  of  nest  soft  enough  for 
anybody.  "You  creep  in  there,"  he  said,  "and 


O  Mistress  Mine  361 

leave  the  rest  to  me.  I'll  keep  an  eye  open  for 
the  motor,  or  the  train,  whichever  happens  along 
first.  Go  to  sleep  if  you  can." 

She  looked  at  him  with  smiling  eyes.  "Get 
in  yourself  for  a  minute  and  see  how  comfortable 
I  shall  be.  I  want  to  take  off  my  shoe  and  shake  a 
teaspoonful  of  gravel  out  of  it  first." 

She  stood  where  she  was  until  he  had  obeyed 
her,  then  seated  herself  on  one  of  the  bales,  drew 
off  her  shoe,  shook  the  gravel  out  of  it  and  put 
it  on  again.  She  remained  sitting  quite  still 
for  a  minute  or  two  longer.  Presently  she  slipped 
quietly  down  from  the  bale  and  peered  in  under 
the  tarpaulin.  The  trick  had  worked  to  a  nicety. 
He  was  drugged  with  fatigue  and  lay,  already, 
a  hundred  fathoms  deep  asleep.  She  drew  the 
piece  of  sacking  over  him  and  covered  him  thick 
with  armfuls  of  the  shavings.  That  done,  she 
ensconced  herself  in  a  comfortable  angle  of  the 
bales  and  looked  out  over  the  silvered  tips  of  the 
pines.  The  pallor  of  dawn  was  already  in  the 
sky. 

The  broad  July  sun,  shining  straight  down 
into  Chance's  face,  was  what  finally  roused  him. 
He  sat  up,  rubbed  his  eyes,  pinched  himself 
tentatively  once  or  twice,  and  began  to  try  to  ac- 


362  Comrade  John 

count  for  himself.  It  took  him  several  minutes 
even  to  make  a  beginning  at  it,  but  by  and  by  he 
got  his  mind  focussed  on  his  escape  with  Cynthia 
from  the  temple.  From  that  point  of  departure 
he  succeeded  in  reconstructing  the  night  down 
to  their  failure  to  find  the  car  at  the  siding.  He 
could  not  pierce  the  mist  beyond  that  moment, 
however.  There  was  something  familiar  about 
this  nest  of  shavings  where  he  found  himself. 
He  must  have  made  it,  he  supposed,  and  crawled 
in  without  knowing  what  he  was  about.  But 
where  was  Cynthia?  A  spasm  of  fear  lest  Stein 
might  have  found  her  and  stolen  her  away  while 
he  was  asleep  brought  him  to  his  feet  in  a  flash. 
He  looked  about  the  platform,  then  into  the  shed, 
without  result.  Then,  when  a  really  rational 
disquiet  was  beginning  to  replace  his  first  be 
wildered  alarm,  he  caught  sight  of  her. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  grassy  bank  a  little  way 
down  the  road,  and  looking,  if  he  had  been  nearly 
enough  awake  to  notice  it,  very  piquantly  out 
of  keeping  with  her  surroundings.  From  her 
neat  shoes  and  provoking  ankles  up  to  the  wing 
on  her  sailor  hat,  she  might  have  been  crossing 
Twenty-third  Street  in  a  hansom  cab  —  except 
that  her  gloves  lay  on  the  grass  beside  her,  and 


O  Mistress  Mine  363 

that  she  was  very  contentedly  munching  an  apple. 
The  color  in  her  cheeks  had  risen  treacherously 
high  by  the  time  he  had  come  quite  near,  but  her 
smile,  to  a  not  too  acute  observer,  was  merely 
friendly  and  a  little  mischievous. 

"You  had  no  trouble  finding  me,  had  you?" 
she  asked. 

"I'm  having  trouble  finding  myself.  I  guess 
you'll  have  to  help  me.  What's  happened?" 

"Nothing  —  much,"  she  told  him,  and  smiled 
again. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  into  her  face, 
spellbound  again,  just  by  the  wonder  of  her. 
She  was  as  wonderful  as  ever  she  had  been  before, 
and  to  double  the  wonder,  in  a  quite  new  way. 
She  tried  to  support  his  gaze  with  some  appearance 
of  nonchalance,  tossed  away  her  apple,  wiped 
her  hands  with  a  rather  crumpled  handkerchief, 
and  finally  put  back  a  lock  of  her  hair  that  had 
strayed  a  little. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  it,"  she  said.  "I  had 
to  do  what  I  could  with  a  side-comb." 

"Your  hair!"  he  whispered,  "your  wonderful 
hair!" 

He  rubbed  his  hands  through  his  own  tumbled 
locks  and  the  shavings  he  found  there  might  have 


364  Comrade  John 

made  him  suspect  that  her  excuses  had  been 
derisive,  but  his  mind  was  capable  of  no  such 
subtlety  as  that.  He  turned  away  from  her  and 
looked  off  down  the  road. 

"The  motor—"  he  said;  "the  motor  hasn't 
come  at  all?" 

"No,"  she  answered. 

"And  the  train — "  He  pulled  out  his  watch, 
frowned  over  it  and  shook  his  head.  "I  must 
have  forgotten  to  wind  it,  —  but  by  the  height 
of  the  sun,  I  should  think  the  train  was  late,  too." 

"You're  getting  on  famously  if  you  can  think 
out  a  hard  thing  like  that,"  she  mocked,  but  no 
mockery  could  disguise  the  growing  unsteadiness 
of  her  voice.  There  was  a  pause ;  then  she  said : 

"I  don't  think  the  train  was  so  very  late, 
though." 

He  pondered  that  remark  a  moment  before 
he  saw  its  import.  "The  train  came  and — " 

" — and  went,"  she  corroborated.  And  I  did 
want  some  of  the  milk  so  much.  But  I  didn't 
dare  come  out  of  my  hiding-place  to  ask  for  it. 
These  apples  are  good,  though  —  pretty  good. 
You'd  better  have  one.  You  must  be  starved, 
too." 

"You  let  the  train  go  away  —  without  you?" 


O  Mistress  Mine  365 

Her  eyes  widened  as  she  looked  at  him;  she 
seemed  to  be  searching  for  something  in  his  face. 
"I  wanted  to  give  you  another  chance  to  —  to 
send  me  away.  If  you  send  me  now,  I'll  go  — 
I  truly  will  —  wherever  you  say." 

He  only  whispered  her  name  once  or  twice  by 
way  of  answer,  reached  gropingly  for  her  hands, 
swayed  forward  a  little,  and  dropped  at  her 
knees. 

All  that  she  wanted,  more  almost  than  she  had 
hoped  for,  spoke  in  the  act;  it  was  a  confession 
of  his  need  for  her,  which  made  her  own  need 
for  him  doubly  sweet.  She  gently  released  her 
hands  and  in  the  embrace  of  her  arms  drew  his 
head  up  close  against  her  breast.  Her  lips 
brushed  his  temple  and  her  warm  tears  spilled 
down  on  his  cheek. 

"It  wasn't  true,"  she  murmured.  "I  wouldn't 
have  gone,  even  if  you  had  tried  again  to  send  me." 
And  a  moment  later  she  essayed  a  little  laugh. 
"What  a  lot  of  trouble  I  should  have  saved  us 
if  I'd  refused  to  go  that  other  time,  in  Paris; 
if  I  had  just  stayed  where  I  was  and  made  you 
marry  me  then  and  there.  I  wanted  to." 

He  moved  a  little,  nestled  a  little  closer.  "I 
am  still  asleep,  I  think." 


366  Comrade  John 

"Sleep  sound,"  she  whispered. 

But  presently,  up  where  the  road  came  crawling 
over  the  crown  of  the  hill,  she  made  out,  in  a 
vignette  of  dust,  a  team  of  horses  and  a  wagon. 
"Oh,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  think  he'd 
be  back  so  soon." 

As  Chance  sat  up  and  looked  at  her  inquiringly, 
she  pointed  it  out  to  him.  "It's  our  coach  and 
six  and  our  fairy  godmother  coming  to  get  us," 
she  said. 

Then  she  sighed.  "I  suppose  I'll  have  to  ex 
plain  it  all  —  no,  you  mustn't  interrupt.  And 
you  mustn't  expect  to  understand,  because  you 
won't  in  the  least.  You  had  two  callers  about 
an  hour  ago,  Mr.  Baumann  and  Mr.  Hemenway. 
They  were  very  anxious  to  see  you,  but  I  told 
them  you  were  not  at  home  and  they  could 
tell  me  about  it  and  I  would  tell  them 
what  to  do.  They  said  they  were  afraid  that 
you  were  going  to  be  arrested.  Mr.  Stein  had 
said  that  you  had  gone  off  with  all  the  money, 
and  they  wanted  to  take  it  back  and  say  they 
had  found  it  before  any  of  the  sheriff's  people 
could  find  you  and  put  you  in  jail.  You  see  it 
was  true,  what  Mr.  Stein  said.  At  least,  you 
had  gone  off  with  me  and  I  had  gone  off  with 


O  Mistress  Mine  367 

the  money,  so  it  came  to  that.  So  I  gave  the 
money  to  Mr.  Baumann  — " 

She  paused  long  enough  to  glance  up  at  him, 
and  at  his  look  of  utter  bewilderment,  she  re 
lented.  "  Oh,  you  poor  dear,  of  course  you  don't 
understand,  although  it's  all  quite  true.  I'll  tell 
you  the  whole  story,  if  you  want  me  to.  But 
it's  very  long,  and  all  about  Mr.  Stein,  and  the 
coach  and  six  is  almost  here." 

His  puzzled  frown  relaxed.  "No,  we'll  let 
it  wait.  It  doesn't  seem  very  important  or  very 
interesting  either,  just  now.  The  really  inter 
esting  thing  is  the  coach  and  six.  How  did  you 
happen  to  think  of  sending  for  it?" 

She  kissed  his  hand  in  token  of  approval. 
"The  car  had  an  accident.  Mr.  Hemenway 
says  that  the  chauffeur  will  get  well,  though  they 
thought  at  first  he  wouldn't.  We'll  have  to  go 
somewhere,  and  I  didn't  think  we'd  want  to 
walk,  so  I  sent  the  fairy  godmother  for  the  coach. 
But  I  meant  him  to  be  longer  finding  it." 

The  coach  proved  to  be  a  two-seated  buck- 
board  drawn  by  two  lean  mountain  horses  and 
driven  by  a  much  "slicked-up"  farmer  boy. 
Bill  Hemenway  climbed  out  of  the  wagon,  and 
simultaneously  out  of  the  role  of  fairy  godmother, 


368  Comrade  John 

with  a  deliberation  which  had  to  serve  as  a  cloak 
for  a  great  deal  of  embarrassment.  He  had  been 
wondering  all  the  past  hour  how  it  had  come 
about  that  he  had  obeyed  without  question  or 
remonstrance  the  bright-eyed  usurper  he  had 
found  on  Chance's  throne  of  authority,  and  now 
that  he  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  his  chief 
the  question  reached  an  acute  stage.  But  the 
voice  reassured  him. 

"Well,  Bill,  we  made  something  of  a  splash, 
one  way  and  another." 

"Yes,"  said  Bill.  "Taken  altogether,  what  I'd 
call  a  pretty  general  average.  I  remember  once 
you  told  me  that  this  Beechcroft  proposition  was 
a  show,  but  I  never  knew  what  a  holy  show  it 
was  until  last  night." 

"You  won't  have  to  ask  any  questions  about 
the  next  one,"  Chance  told  him  rather  soberly; 
"we're  done  with  hybrids.  The  next  one  will 
be  the  straight  article." 

By  that  time  he  and  Cynthia  were  seated  in 
the  buckboard.  "If  you  see  anything  of  Mr. 
Stein  roaming  around  these  woods,"  said  Bill, 
"give  him  my  best  wishes  that  I  catch  a  glimpse 
of  him  myself." 

"We  shan't  see  him,  and  you  won't,  either," 


O  Mistress  Mine  369 

Cynthia  assured  him.  "Mr.  Stein  took  the 
milk  train." 

Their  driver  was  slapping  his  horses'  backs 
with  the  reins.  "Where  to?"  he  asked  briskly. 

Chance  spoke  in  the  manner  of  one  who  is 
gently  but  decisively  taking  command  of  a  sit 
uation.  "Drive,"  he  commanded,  "to  the  near 
est  place  where  I  can  find  a  marriage  license  and 
a  minister." 

Cynthia  chuckled.  "You  won't  forget  to  give 
Aunt  Augusta  my  note,  will  you,  Mr.  Hemenway  ? 
Oh,  but  let  Mr.  Chance  read  it  first." 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  was  the  substance 
of  it.  "I  am  off  getting  married  to  Mr.  Chance." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  seat  with  an  outright 
laugh.  "I'm  still  an  hour  behind  the  schedule. 
When  are  you  going  to  let  me  catch  up?  Are 
you  going  to  get  the  license  and  the  minister?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can,"  she  told  him. 
"You  don't  know  yet  who  it  is  you're  going  to 
marry."  Then  she  began  counting  on  her 
fingers.  "You  have  run  off  with  somebody's 
money,  and  you  don't  know  how  you  took  it; 
and  you're  going  somewhere  to  get  married,  and 
you  don't  know  where;  and  you  only  know  the 
first  name  of  the  girl  you're  getting  married 

2B 


370  Comrade  John 

to.  Am  I  even  with  you  for  Paris,  Monsieur 
Jean?" 

They  waved  good-by  to  Bill  who  stood  hurrah 
ing  in  the  road.  Then  Chance  had  an  idea. 

"Driver,"  he  said,  " where  can  we  get  break 
fast?" 

"Our  house  is  just  a  piece  up  the  road.  I 
guess  mother'd  make  you  some." 

"And  will  she  let  us  begin  with  pie  and  pan 
cakes?" 

The  boy  giggled.  "That's  the  way  I  like 
to  begin  myself." 

Trudging  back  to  Beechcroft  along  the  old 
construction  road,  Bill  indulged  in  soliloquy. 
"He  never  told  me  where  to  ship  our  stuff,  nor 
where  to  go  myself,  nor  what  we  was  to  tackle 
next,  nor  whether  it  was  to  be  to-morrow  or  next 
year.  He  didn't  even  give  me  a  telegraph  ad 
dress.  And  the  funny  thing  is,  I  clean  forgot 
to  ask  him." 

Indeed,  it  looked,  now  this  new  goddess  had 
climbed  into  the  car,  as  if  the  levers  would  be 
pulled  more  capriciously  than  ever.  But  for 
all  that,  Bill  wore  a  grin. 


The  MERWIN-WEBSTER  Novels 

Each,  cloth,  decorated  cover,  $1.50 

Calumet  "  K  "  Illustrated  by  HARRY  EDWARDS 

"  A  novel  with  several  elements  of  rather  unusual  interest.  As  a 
tale,  it  is  swift,  simple,  and  absorbing,  and  one  does  not  willingly 
put  it  down  until  it  is  finished.  It  has  to  do  with  grain-elevator 
business,  with  railways,  strikes,  and  commercial  and  financial  mat 
ters  generally,  woven  skilfully  into  a  human  story  of  love." 

—  The  Commercial  Advertiser,  New  York. 

The  Short  Line  War 

"  Breezy,  up-to-date  ...  a  capital  story  of  adventure  in  the  field 
of  railroading."—  The  Outlook. 


By  HENRY  K.  WEBSTER 

The  Banker  and  the  Bear 

Traitor  and  Loyalist 

The  Duke  of  Cameron  Avenue  50  cents 

Roger  Drake,  Captain  of  Industry 

"  Mr.  Webster's  stories  sweep  the  readers  along  from  start  to 
finish  without  a  break.  Every  reader  of  '  Calumet  "  K  "  '  knows  what 
that  means.  It  is  hard  to  tell  whether  the  charm  of  the  love  story 
or  the  dramatic  interest  in  the  plot  is  greater." —  Worcester  Spy. 


By  SAMUEL  MERWIN 

Merry  Anne  Illustrated 

The  Road  Builders  Illustrated  by  F.  B.  Masters 

"  The  finest  thing  about  these  novels  is  their  breezy  light-hearted- 
ness,  their  outdoor  zest,  their  spirit  of  youth." 

—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

PUBLISHEBS,   64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YOKK 


Mr.  JACK  LONDON'S  Novels,  etc. 


Each,  in  decorated  cloth  binding,  $1.50 


The  Call   of   the  Wild  Illustrated  in  colors 

"  A  big  story  in  sober  English,  and  with  thorough  art  in  the  construction  ;  a 
wonderfully  perfect  bit  of  work  ;  a  book  that  will  be  heard  of  long.  The 
dog's  adventures  are  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits  could  be,  and  Mr. 
London's  workmanship  is  wholly  satisfying."  —  The  New  York  Sun. 

The  Sea- Wolf  Illustrated  in  colors 

"Jack  London's  The  Sea-Wolf  \&  marvellously  truthful.  .  .  .  Reading 
it  through  at  a  sitting,  we  have  found  it  poignantly  interesting  ;  .  .  .  a 
superb  piece  of  craftsmanship."  —  The  New  York  Tribune, 

W^hlte   Fangf  Illustrated  in  colors 

"  A  thrilling  story  of  adventure  .  .  .  stirring  indeed  .  .  .  and  it  touches  a 
chord  of  tenderness  that  is  all  too  rare  in  Mr.  London's  work." 

—  Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

Before   Adam  Illustrated  in  colors 

"  The  story  moves  with  a  wonderful  sequence  of  interesting  and  wholly 
credible  events.  The  marvel  of  it  all  is  not  in  the  story  itself,  but  in  the 
audacity  of  the  man  who  undertook  such  a  task  as  the  writing  of  it.  ... 
From  an  artistic  standpoint  the  book  is  an  undoubted  success.  And  it  is  no 
less  a  success  from  the  standpoint  of  the  reader  who  seeks  to  be  entertained." 

—  The  Plain  Dealer,  Cleveland. 

Short  Stories  —  including  some  of  his  best  works 

Children  of  the  Forest  The  Game 

Faith  of  Men  Moon  Face 

Tales  of  the  Fish  Patrol  Love  of  Life 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

PUBLISHEES,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK 


Mr.  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD'S  NOVELS 

NOVELS  OF  ROMAN  SOCIAL  LIFE 

In  decorated  cloth  covers,  each,  $1.50 

A  Roman  Singer 

"  One  of  the  earliest  and  best  works  of  this  famous  novelist.  .  .  .  None 
but  a  genuine  artist  could  have  made  so  true  a  picture  of  human  life,  crossed 
by  human  passions  and  interwoven  with  human  weakness.  It  is  a  perfect 
specimen  of  literary  art." —  The  Newark  Advertiser* 

Marzio's  Crucifix 

"  We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  say  that  Mr.  Crawford  possesses  in 
an  extraordinary  degree  the  art  of  constructing  a  story.  It  is  as  if  it  could 
not  have  been  written  otherwise,  so  naturally  does  the  story  untold  itself, 
and  so  logical  and  consistent  is  the  sequence  of  incident  after  incident.  As 
a  story,  Marzio's  Crucifix  is  perfectly  constructed."  —  New  York  Commer 
cial  Advertiser. 

Heart   of  Rome*     A  Tale  of  the  Lost  Water 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  a  story  of  absorbing  interest,  a  story  with  a 
genuine  thrill  in  it;  he  has  drawn  his  characters  with  a  sure  and  brilliant 
touch,  and  he  has  said  many  things  surpassingly  well." — New  York  Times 
Saturday  Review. 


Cecilia*      A  Story  of  Modern  Rome 


"  That  F.  Marion  Crawford  is  a  master  of  mystery  needs  no  new  telling. . . . 
His  latest  novel,  Cecilia,  is  as  weird  as  anything  he  has  done  since  the 
memorable  Mr.  Isaacs.  ...  A  strong,  interesting,  dramatic  story,  with 
the  picturesque  Roman  setting  beautifully  handled  as  only  a  master's  touch 
could  do  it."  —  Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

Whosoever  Shall  Offend 

"  It  is  a  story  sustained  from  beginning  to  end  by  an  ever  increasing  dra 
matic  quality."  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

Pietro  Ghisleri 

"  The  imaginative  richness,  the  marvellous  ingenuity  of  plot,  the  power  and 
subtlety  of  the  portrayal  of  character,  the  charm  of  the  romantic  environ 
ment, —  the  entire  atmosphere,  indeed, -r- rank  this  novel  at  once  among 
the  great  creations."  —  The  Boston  Budget. 

To  Leeward 

"  The  four  characters  with  whose  fortunes  this  novel  deals,  are,  perhaps, 
the  most  brilliantly  executed  portraits  in  the  whole  of  Mr.  Crawford's  long 
picture  gallery,  while  for  subtle  insight  into  the  springs  of  human  passion 
and  for  swift  dramatic  action  none  of  the  novels  surpasses  this  one."  —  The 
News  and  Courier. 


A  Lady  of  Rome 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

2 


Mr.  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD'S  NOVELS 

Mr.  Crawford  has  no  equal  as  a  writer  of  brilliant  cosmopolitan  fiction,  in 
which  the  characters  really  belong  to  the  chosen  scene  and  the  story  inter 
est  is  strong.  His  novels  possess  atmosphere  in  a  high  degree. 

Mr.  Isaacs  (India) 

Its  scenes  are  laid  in  Simla,  chiefly.  This  is  the  work  which  first  placed 
its  author  among  the  most  brilliant  novelists  of  his  day. 

Greifenstein  (The  Black  Forest) 

"...  Another  notable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  day.  It  pos 
sesses  originality  in  its  conception  and  is  a  work  of  unusual  ability.  Its 
interest  is  sustained  to  the  close,  and  it  is  an  advance  even  on  the  previous 
work  of  this  talented  author.  Like  all  Mr.  Crawford's  work,  this  novel  is 
crisp,  clear,  and  vigorous,  and  will  be  read  with  a  great  deal  of  interest."  — 
New  York  Evening  Telegram. 

Zoroaster  (Persia) 

11  It  is  a  drama  in  the  force  of  its  situations  and  in  the  poetry  and  dignity  of 
its  language  ;  but  its  men  and  women  are  not  men  and  women  of  a  play. 
By  the  naturalness  of  their  conversation  and  behavior  they  seem  to  live  and 
lay  hold  of  our  human  sympathy  more  than  the  same  characters  on  a  stage 
could  possibly  do."  —  The  New  York  Times. 

The  Witch  of  Prague  (Bohemia) 

"A  fantastic  tale,"  illustrated  by  W.J.  Hennessy. 

"  The  artistic  skill  with  which  this  extraordinary  story  is  constructed  and 
carried  out  is  admirable  and  delightful. . .  .  Mr.  Crawford  has  scored  a 
decided  triumph,  for  the  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  throughout.  .  . . 
A  very  remarkable,  powerful,  and  interesting  story. "—New  York  Tribune. 

Paul   Patoff  (Constantinople) 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  a  marked  talent  for  assimilating  local  color,  not  to 
make  mention  of  a  broader  historical  sense.  Even  though  he  may  adopt, 
as  it  is  the  romancer's  right  to  do,  the  extreme  romantic  view  of  history,  it  is 
always  a  living  and  moving  picture  that  he  evolves  for  us,  varied  and  stir 
ring."  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

Marietta  (Venice) 

"  No  living  writer  can  surpass  Mr.  Crawford  in  the  construction  of  a  com 
plicated  plot  and  the  skilful  unravelling  of  the  tangled  skein." — Chicago 
Record-Herald. 

"  He  has  gone  back  to  the  field  of  his  earlier  triumphs,  and  has,  perhaps, 
scored  the  greatest  triumph  of  them  all."—  New  York  Herald. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENTTE,  NEW  YORK 


Mr.  P.  MARION  CRAWFORD'S  NOVELS 

In  the  binding  oj  the  new  Uniform  Edition,  each,  $1.50 

Via   CrUCis,     A  Romance  of  the  Second  Crusade.     Illustrated 
by  Louis  Loeb 

"  Via  Cruets  ...  A  tale  of  former  days,  possessing  an  air  of  reality  and  an 
absorbing  interest  such  as  few  writers  since  Scott  have  been  able  to  accom 
plish  when  dealing  with  historical  characters."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

In  the  Palace  of  the  King  (Spain) 

"  In  the  Palace  of  the  King  is  a  masterpiece ;  there  is  a  picturesqueness,  a 
sincerity  which  will  catch  all  readers  in  an  agreeable  storm  of  emotion,  and 
even  leave  a  hardened  reviewer  impressed  and  delighted."  —  Literature, 
London. 

With  the  Immortals 

"  The  strange  central  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only  to  a  writer 
whose  mind  was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  of  modern  thought  and  prog 
ress,  while  its  execution,  the  setting  it  forth  in  proper  literary  clothing, 
could  be  successfully  attempted  only  by  one  whose  active  literary  ability 
should  be  fully  equalled  by  his  power  of  assimilative  knowledge  both  lit 
erary  and  scientific,  and  no  less  by  his  courage  and  capacity  for  hard  work. 
The  book  will  be  found  to  have  a  fascination  entirely  new  for  the  habitual 
reader  of  novels.  Indeed,  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded  in  taking  his  read 
ers  quite  above  the  ordinary  plane  of  novel  interest."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 

Children  of  the  King  (Calabria) 

"One  of  the  most  artistic  and  exquisitely  finished  pieces  of  work  that 
Crawford  has  produced.  The  picturesque  setting,  Calabria  and  its  sur 
roundings,  the  beautiful  Sorrento  and  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  with  the  bewitch 
ing  accessories  that  climate,  sea,  and  sky  afford,  give  Mr.  Crawford  rich 
opportunities  to  show  his  rare  descriptive  powers.  As  a  whole  the  book  is 
strong  and  beautiful  through  its  simplicity,  and  ranks  among  the  choicest 
of  the  author's  many  fine  productions." — Public  Opinion. 

A  Cigarette  Maker's  Romance  (Munich) 

and   Khaledt  a  Tale  of  Arabia 

"Two  gems  of  subtle  analysis  of  human  passion  and  motive." —  Times. 
"  The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  Mr.  Crawford  done 
more  brilliant  realistic  work  than  here.  But  his  realism  is  only  the  case 
and  cover  for  those  intense  feelings  which,  placed  under  no  matter  what 
humble  conditions,  produce  the  most  dramatic  and  the  most  tragic  situa 
tions.  . . .  This  is  a  secret  of  genius,  to  take  the  most  coarse  and  common 
material,  the  meanest  surroundings,  the  most  sordid  material  prospects, 
and  out  of  the  vehement  passions  which  sometimes  dominate  all  human 
beings  to  build  up  with  these  poor  elements,  scenes  and  passages  the 
dramatic  and  emotional  power  of  which  at  once  enforce  attention  and 
awaken  the  profoundest  interest."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


Fair  Margaret.    A  Portrait 


"  An  exhilarating  romance  . .  .  alluring  in  its  naturalness  and  grace."  — 
Boston  Herald.  

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK 
4 


Mr.  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD'S  NOVELS 

WITH  SCENES  LAID  IN  ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA 

In  the  binding  oj  the  Uniform  Edition 

A  Tale  of  a  Lonely  Parish 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this  brief  and 
vivid  story.  ...  It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human  sympathy,  as 
well  as  thoroughly  artistic  in  its  nice  balancing  of  the  unusual  with  the 
commonplace,  the  clever  juxtaposition  of  innocence  and  guilt,  comedy 
and  tragedy,  simplicity  and  intrigue."  —  Critic. 

Dr.    Claudius.     A  True  Story 

The  scene  changes  from  Heidelberg  to  New  York,  and  much  of  the  story 
develops  during  the  ocean  voyage. 

"There  is  a  satisfying  quality  in  Mr.  Crawford's  strong,  vital,  forceful 
stories."  —  Boston  Herald. 

An  American  Politician.        The  scenes  are  laid  in  Boston 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely  written, 
portraying  sharply  individual  characters  in  well-defined  surroundings."  — 
New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  Three  Fates 

41  Mr.  Crawford  has  manifestly  brought  his  best  qualities  as  a  student  of 
human  nature  and  his  finest  resources  as  a  master  of  an  original  and 
picturesque  style  to  bear  upon  this  story.  Taken  for  all  in  all,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  pleasing  of  all  his  productions  in  fiction,  and  it  affords  a  view  of 
certain  phases  of  American,  or  perhaps  we  should  say  of  New  York,  life 
that  have  not  hitherto  been  treated  with  anything  like  the  same  adequacy 
and  felicity."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

Marion  Darche 

*  Full  enough  of  incident  to  have  furnished  material  for  three  or  four 
stories.  ...  A  most  interesting  and  engrossing  book.  Every  page  unfolds 
new  possibilities,  and  the  incidents  multiply  rapidly."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 
"  We  are  disposed  to  rank  Marion  Darche  as  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's 
American  stories."  —  The  Literary  World. 

Katharine  Lauderdale 

The  RalstonS.     A  Sequel  to  "Katharine  Lauderdale" 

"  Mr.  Crawford  at  his  best  is  a  great  novelist,  and  in  Katharine  Lauderdale 
we  have  him  at  his  best."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  A  most  admirable  novel,  excellent  in  style,  flashing  with  humor,  and  full 
of  the  ripest  and  wisest  reflections  upon  men  and  women."  —  The  West 
minster  Gazette. 

"  It  is  the  first  time,  we  think,  in  American  fiction  that  any  such  breadth  of 
view  has  shown  itself  in  the  study  of  our  social  framework."  —  Life. 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PTJBLISHEES,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 
5 


Mr.  WINSTON  CHURCHILL'S  NOVELS 


Each,  cloth,  gilt  tops  and  titles,  $1.50 


The  Celebrity.    An  Episode 


"  No  such  piece  of  inimitable  comedy  in  a  literary  way  has  appeared  for 
years.  ...  It  is  the  purest,  keenest  fun." —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean.  / 

Richard  Carvel  illustrated 

"...  In  breadth  of  canvas,  massing  of  dramatic  effect,  depth  of  feeling,  and 
rare  wholesomeness  of  spirit,  it  has  seldom,  if  ever,  been  surpassed  by  an 
American  romance." — Chicago  Tribune. 

The   Crossing  Illustrated 

"  The  Crossing  is  a  thoroughly  interesting  book,  packed  with  exciting 
adventure  and  sentimental  incident,  yet  faithful  to  historical  fact  both  in 
detail  and  in  spirit."  —  The  Dial. 

The   Crisis  Illustrated 

"  It  is  a  charming  love  story,  and  never  loses  its  interest. .  .  .  The  intense 
political  bitterness,  the  intense  patriotism  of  both  parties,  are  shown  under- 
standingly."  —  Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 

Coniston  Illustrated 

"  Coniston  has  a  lighter,  gayer  spirit,  and  a  deeper,  tenderer  touch  than 
Mr.  Churchill  has  ever  achieved  before.  ...  It  is  one  of  the  truest  and  finest 
transcripts  of  modem  American  life  thus  far  achieved  in  our  fiction."  — 
Chicago  Record-Herald. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK 
6 


Mr.  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN'S  NOVELS 

Each,  doth,  I2mo,  $1.50 

The  Choir  Invisible 

This  can  also  be  had  in  a  special  edition  illustrated  by  Orson 

Lowell,  $2.50 

"  One  reads  the  story  for  the  story's  sake,  and  then  re-reads  the  book  out 
of  pure  delight  in  its  beauty.  The  story  is  American  to  the  very  core.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Allen  stands  to-day  in  the  front  rank  of  American  novelists.  The 
Choir  Invisible  will  solidify  a  reputation  already  established  and  bring  into 
clear  light  his  rare  gifts  as  an  artist.  For  this  latest  story  is  as  genuine  a 
work  of  art  as  has  come  from  an  American  hand."  —  HAMILTON  MABIE 
in  The  Outlook. 

The  Reign   of  Law*    A  Tale  of  the  Kentucky  Hempfields 

"  Mr.  Allen  has  a  style  as  original  and  almost  as  perfectly  finished  as  Haw 
thorne's,  and  he  has  also  Hawthorne's  fondness  for  spiritual  suggestion  that 
makes  all  his  stories  rich  in  the  qualities  that  are  lacking  in  so  many  novels 
of  the  period.  ...  If  read  in  the  right  way,  it  cannot  fail  to  add  to  one's 
spiritual  possessions."  —  San.  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Summer  in  Arcady*    A  Tale  of  Nature 

"  This  story  by  James  Lane  Allen  is  one  of  the  gems  of  the  season.  It  is 
artistic  in  its  setting,  realistic  and  true  to  nature  and  life  in  its  descriptions, 
dramatic,  pathetic,  tragic,  in  its  incidents ;  indeed,  a  veritable  masterpiece 
that  must  become  classic.  It  is  difficult  to  give  an  outline  of  the  story ; 
it  is  one  of  the  stories  which  do  not  outline;  it  must  be  read."  —  Boston 
Daily  Advertiser. 

The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  It  may  be  that  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  will  live  and  become  a  part  of 
our  literature ;  it  certainly  will  live  far  beyond  the  allotted  term  of  present- 
day  fiction.  Our  principal  concern  is  that  it  is  a  notable  novel,  that  it  ranks 
high  in  the  range  of  American  and  English  fiction,  and  that  it  is  worth  the 
reading,  the  re-reading,  and  the  continuous  appreciation  of  those  who  care 
for  modern  literature  at  its  best."  —  By  E.  F.  E.  in  the  Boston  Transcript. 

Shorter  Stories.     Each,  $1.50 
The  Blue  Grass  Region  of  Kentucky 
Flute  and  Violin,  and  Other  Kentucky  Tales 

Each,  illustrated,  $1.00 
A  Kentucky  Cardinal 

Aftermath*     A  Sequel  to  "  A  Kentucky  Cardinal  " 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 
7 


Mr.  OWEN  WISTER'S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  cover,  $1.50 
The  Virginian 

"  The  vanished  West  is  made  to  live  again  by  Owen  Wister  in  a  manner 
which  makes  his  book  easily  the  best  that  deals  with  the  cowboy  and  the 
cattle  country.  ...  It  is  picturesque,  racy,  and  above  all  it  is  original."  — 
The  Philadelphia  Press. 

Lady  Baltimore 

"  After  cowboy  stories  innumerable,  The  Virginian  came  as  the  last  and 
definite  word  on  that  romantic  subject  in  our  fiction.  Lady  Baltimore 
will  serve  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  most  subtly  drawn  picture  of  the 
old-world  dignity  of  the  vanished  South."—  The  New  York  Evening  Mail. 


Mr.  EDEN  PHILPOTTS'S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth,  $1.50 

The  American  Prisoner  illustrated 

"  Intensely  readable  .  .  .  perfectly  admirable  in  its  elemental  humor  and 
racy  turns  of  speech." — The  Spectator,  London. 

The  Secret  Woman 

"  There  cannot  be  two  opinions  as  to  the  interest  and  the  power  of  The 
Secret  Woman.  It  is  not  only  its  author's  masterpiece,  but  it  is  far  in 
advance  of  anything  he  has  yet  written  —  and  that  is  to  give  it  higher  praise 
than  almost  any  other  comparison  with  contemporary  fiction  could  afford." 
—  Time s  Saturday  Review. 

Knock  at  a  Venture 

Sketches  of  the  rustic  life  of  Devon,  rich  in  racy,  quaint,  and  humorous 
touches. 

The  Portreeve 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENTJE,  NEW  YORK 
8 


Mr.  ROBERT  HERRICK'S  NOVELS 


Cloth,  extra,  gilt  tops,  each,  $1.50 


The  Gospel  of  Freedom 


"  A  novel  that  may  truly  be  called  the  greatest  study  of  social  life,  in  a 
broad  and  very  much  up-to-date  sense,  that  has  ever  been  contributed  to 
American  fiction." — Chicago  Inter- Ocean. 

The  Web  of  Life 

"  It  is  strong  in  that  it  faithfully  depicts  many  phases  of  American  life,  and 
uses  them  to  strengthen  a  web  of  fiction,  which  is  most  artistically  wrought 
out."  —  Bti/alo  Express. 

The  Real  World 

"  The  title  of  the  book  has  a  subtle  intention.  It  indicates,  and  is  true  to 
the  verities  in  doing  so,  the  strange  dreamlike  quality  of  life  to  the  man 
who  has  not  yet  fought  his  own  battles,  or  come  into  conscious  possession 
of  his  will  — only  such  battles  bite  into  the  consciousness."—  Chicago 
Tribune. 

The  Common  Lot 

"  It  grips  the  reader  tremendously.  ...  It  is  the  drama  of  a  human  soul 
the  reader  watches  . .  .  the  finest  study  of  human  motive  that  has  appeared 
for  many  a  day."  —  The  World  To-day. 

The  Memoirs  of  an  American  Citizen,     illustrated 

with  about  fifty  drawings  by  F.  B.  Masters 

"  Mr.  Herrick's  book  is  a  book  among  many,  and  he  comes  nearer  to 
reflecting  a  certain  kind  of  recognizable,  contemporaneous  American  spirit 
than  anybody  has  yet  done."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  Intensely  absorbing  as  a  story,  it  is  also  a  crisp,  vigorous  document  of 
startling  significance.  More  than  any  other  writer  to-day  he  is  giving  us 
the  American  novel."  —  New  York  Globe. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


Mr.  JACK  LONDON'S  NOVELS,  etc. 


Each,  in  decorated  cloth  binding,  $1.30 


The   Call   of  the   Wild  Illustrated  in  colors 

"  A  big  story  in  sober  English,  and  with  thorough  art  in  the  construction ; 
a  wonderfully  perfect  bit  of  work ;  a  book  that  will  be  heard  of  long.  The 
dog's  adventures  are  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits  could  be,  and  Mr. 
London's  workmanship  is  wholly  satisfying."  —  The  New  York  Sun. 

The   Sea- Wolf  Illustrated  in  colors 

"Jack  London's  The  Sea-Wolf  is  marvellously  truthful.  .  .  .  Reading 
it  through  at  a  sitting,  we  have  found  it  poignantly  interesting  ;  .  .  .  a 
superb  piece  of  craftsmanship." —  The  New  York  Tribune. 

White  Fang  Illustrated  in  colors 

"  A  thrilling  story  of  adventure  .  .  .  stirring  indeed  .  .  .  and  it  touches  a 
chord  of  tenderness  that  is  all  too  rare  in  Mr.  London's  work."  —  Record- 
Herald,  Chicago. 

Before   Adam  Illustrated  in  colors 

"The  story  moves  with  a  wonderful  sequence  of  interesting  and  wholly 
credible  events.  The  marve<  of  it  all  is  not  in  the  story  itself,  but  in  the 
audacity  of  the  man  who  undertook  such  a  task  as  the  writing  of  it.  ... 
From  an  artistic  standpoint  the  book  is  an  undoubted  success.  And  it  is 
no  less  a  success  from  the  standpoint  of  the  reader  who  seeks  to  be  enter 
tained," —  The  Plain  Dealer,  Cleveland. 


Shorter  Stories 

Children  of  the  Frost  The  Game 

Faith  of  Men  Moon  Face 

Tales  of  the  Fish  Patrol  Love  of  Life 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PTJBLISHEES,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 
10 


Mr.  WILLIAM  STEARNS  DAVIS' S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  cover,  $1.50 

A  Friend  of  Caesar 

"  As  a  story  .  .  .  there  can  be  no  question  of  its  success.  .  .  .  While  the 
beautiful  love  of  Cornelia  and  Drusus  lies  at  the  sound  sweet  heart  of  the 
story,  to  say  so  is  to  give  a  most  meagre  idea  of  the  large  sustained  interest 
of  the  whole.  .  .  .  There  are  many  incidents  so  vivid,  so  brilliant,  that 
they  fix  themselves  in  the  memory."  —  NANCY  HUSTON  BANKS  in  The 
Bookman. 

44  God   Wills  It"    A  Tale  of  the  First  Crusade.      Illustrated 
by  Louis  Betts 

"  Not  since  Sir  Walter  Scott  cast  his  spell  over  us  with  Ivanhoe,  Count 
Robert  of  Paris,  and  Quentin  Durward  have  we  been  so  completely 
captivated  by  a  story  as  by  ' God  Wills  It'  It  grips  the  attention  of  the 
reader  in  the  first  chapter  and  holds  it  till  the  last."  —  Christian  Endeavor 
World. 

Falaise  of  the  Blessed  Voice*    A  Tale  of  the  Youth  of 

St.  Louis,  King  of  France 

"  In  this  tale  of  the  youth  of  Louis,  King  of  France  and  afterward  saint  in 
the  calendar  of  the  Catholic  Church,  Mr.  Davis  has  fulfilled  the  promises 
contained  in  A  Friend  of  Casar  and  'God  Wills  Jt.'  The  novel  is  not  only 
interesting  and  written  with  skill  in  the  scenes  which  are  really  dramatic, 
but  it  is  convincing  in  its  character  drawing  and  its  analysis  of  motives." 
—  Evening  Post,  New  York. 

A  Victor   of  Salamis,      A  Tale  of  the   Days  of  Xerxes, 
Leonidas,  and  Themistocles 

"  An  altogether  admirable  picture  of  Hellenic  life  and  Hellenic  ideals.  It 
is  just  such  a  book  as  will  convey  to  the  average  reader  what  is  the  eternal 
value  of  Greek  Life  to  the  world  .  .  .  carried  breathlessly  along  by  a  style 
which  never  poses,  and  yet  is  always  strong  and  dignified.  .  .  .  This 
remarkable  book  takes  its  place  with  the  best  of  historical  fiction.  Those 
who  have  made  their  acquaintance  with  the  characters  in  the  days  of  their 
youth  will  find  delight  in  the  remembrance.  Those  who  would  fain  learn 
something  of  the  golden  days  of  Greece  could  not  do  better  than  use  Mr. 
Davis  for  guide." —  The  Daily  Post,  Liverpool. 

"  It  is  seldom  that  the  London  critics  admit  that  an  American  may  wear 
the  mantle  of  Scott,  but  they  are  declaring  that  this  book  entitles  Mr.  Davis 
to  a  place  among  novelists  not  far  below  the  author  of  The  Talisman." 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 
ii 


MABEL  OSGOOD  WRIGHT'S  NOVELS,  etc. 

(Published  originally  as  by  "  Barbara,"  the  Commuter's  wife) 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  binding,  $1.50 

The  Garden  of  a   Commuter's   Wife*    illustrated 

from  photographs 

"  Reading  it  is  like  having  the  entry  into  a  home  of  the  class  that  is  the 
proudest,  product  of  our  land,  a  home  where  love  of  books  and  love  of 
nature  go  hand  in  hand  with  hearty  simple  love  of  '  folks.'  ...  It  is  a 
charming  book."  —  The  Interior. 

People  of  the  Whirlpool  Illustrated 

"  The  whole  book  is  delicious,  with  its  wise  and  kindly  humor,  its  just  per 
spective  of  the  true  values  of  things,  its  clever  pen  pictures  of  people  and 
customs,  and  its  healthy  optimism  for  the  great  world  in  general."  —  Phila 
delphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

The  Woman  Errant 

"  The  book  is  worth  reading.  It  will  cause  discussion.  It  is  an  interesting, 
fictional  presentation  of  an  important  modern  question,  treated  with  fasci 
nating  feminine  adroitness." —  Miss  JEANNETTE  GlLDER  in  The  Chicago 
Tribune. 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Fox 

"  Her  little  pictures  of  country  life  are  fragrant  with  a  genuine  love  of 
nature,  and  there  is  fun  as  genuine  in  her  notes  on  rural  character.  A 
travelling  pieman  is  one  of  her  most  lovable  personages ;  another  is  Tatters, 
a  dog,  who  is  humanly  winsome  and  wise,  and  will  not  soon  be  forgotten 
by  the  reader  of  this  very  entertaining  book."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

The  Garden,  You  and  I 

"  This  volume  is  simply  the  best  she  has  yet  put  forth,  and  quite  too  deli- 
ciously  torturing  to  the  reviewer,  whose  only  garden  is  in  Spain.  .  .  .  The 
delightful  humor  which  persuaded  the  earlier  books,  and  without  which 
Barbara  would  not  be  Barbara,  has  lost  nothing  of  its  poignancy,  and 
would  make  The  Garden,  You  and  I  pleasant  reading  even  to  the  man 
who  doesn't  know  a  pink  from  a  phlox  or  a  Daphne  cneorum  from  a 
Cherokee  rose." —  Congregationalist. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

12 


THE  MERWIN-WEBSTER  NOVELS 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  covers,  $1.50 

Calumet   "  K  "  Illustrated  by  Harry  C.  Edwards 

"  Calumet  'K'  is  a  novel  that  is  exciting  and  absorbing,  but  not  the 
least  bit  sensational.  It  is  the  story  of  a  rush.  .  .  .  The  book  is  an  un 
usually  good  story ;  one  that  shows  the  inner  workings  of  the  labor  union, 
and  portrays  men  who  are  the  bone  and  sinew  of  the  earth." —  The  Toledo 
Blade. 

The  Short  Line  War 

"  A  capital  story  of  adventure  in  the  field  of  railroading." —  Outlook. 


Mr.  MARK  LEE  LUTHER'S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  cloth,  decorated  covers,  $1.30 

The  Henchman 

"  It  wins  admiration  on  almost  every  page  by  the  cleverness  of  its  inven 
tions."— CHURCHILL  WILLIAMS  in  The  Bookman. 

The  Mastery 

"  A  story  of  really  notable  power  remarkable  for  its  strength." —  Times. 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  CASTLE'S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  binding,  $1.50 
The  Pride  of  Jennico 

"  This  lively  story  has  a  half-historic  flavor  which  adds  to  its  interest  .  .  . 
told  with  an  intensity  of  style  which  almost  takes  away  the  breath  of  the 
reader."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

E  Youth  But  Knew 

"  They  should  be  the  most  delightful  of  comrades,  for  their  writing  is  so 
apt,  so  responsive,  so  joyous,  so  saturated  with  the  promptings  and  the 
glamour  of  spring.  It  is  because  If  Youth  But  Knew  has  all  these  ador 
able  qualities  that  it  is  so  fascinating." —  Cleveland  Leader. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PTJBLISHEES,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 
13 


Mr.  JOHN  LUTHER  LONG'S  NOVELS,  etc. 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  covers,  $1.50 


The  Way  of  the  Gods 

artistic  quality  of  his  story.  It  rings  true 
nd  of  woman's  love,  it  rings  true  for  all 
be,  ...  and  is  told  with  an  art  worthy 


"  There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  artistic  quality  of  his  story.  It  rings  true 
with  the  golden  ring  of  chivalry  and  of  woman's  love,  it  rings  true  for  all 
lovers  of  romance,  wherever  they  be,  ...  and  is  told  with  an  art  worthy 
of  the  idea."  —  New  York  Mail. 


Heimweh  and  Other  Stories 

"  As  in  Madam  Butterfly  his  subtle  appreciation  of  love's  tender  mystery 
creates  an  exquisite  thrill  of  '  the  heavenly  longing  —  for  the  love  —  the 
loved  ones '  the  one  thing  that  through  poverty  and  age  can  keep  the  door 
open  to  joy."  —  New  York  Times. 


Miss  BEULAH  MARIE  DIX'S  NOVELS,  etc. 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  covers,  $1.50 

The  Making  of  Christopher  Ferringham 

"  In  brilliancy,  exciting  interest,  and  verisimilitude,  The  Making  of  Chris 
topher  Ferringham  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  semi-historical  novels  of  the 
day,  and  not  unworthy  of  comparison  with  Maurice  Hewlett's  best."  —  Bos 
ton  Advertiser. 

The  Life,  Treason,  and  Death  of  James  Blount 
of  Breckenhow 

"A  novel  that  may  fairly  challenge  comparison  with  the  very  best,  telling 
the  story  of  treason  and  a  love,  of  many  good  fights,  a  few  mistakes,  and  a 
good  death  at  the  last." —  The  Boston  Iranscript. 

The  Fair  Maid  of  Greystones 

"  The  plot  of  The  Fair  Maid  of  Greystones  is  not  unworthy  of  Weyman 
at  his  best.  This  is  strong  praise,  but  it  is  deserved.  From  the  moment 
Jack  Hetherington,  the  Cavalier  volunteer,  assumes  the  identity  of  his 
blackguard  cousin,  and  thus  escapes  certain  death  to  face  the  responsibil 
ity  for  his  kinsman's  dark  deeds,  until  the  end,  which  is  sanely  happy,  the 
adventure  never  flags.  This  is  one  of  the  few  historical  novels  in  whose 
favor  an  exception  may  well  be  made  by  those  who  long  since  lost  interest 
in  the  school."  —  New  York  Mail. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,   64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


Mr.  CHARLES  MAJOR'S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  binding,  $1.50 
Dorothy   Vcrnon   of   Haddon   Hall,     illustrated  by 

Howard  Chandler  Christy 

"  Dorothy  is  a  splendid  creation,  a  superb  creature  of  brains,  beauty,  force, 
capacity,  and  passion,  a  riot  of  energy,  love,  and  red  blood.  She  is  the 
fairest,  fiercest,  strongest,  tenderest  heroine  that  ever  woke  up  a  jaded 
novel  reader  and  made  him  realize  that  life  will  be  worth  living  so  long  as 
the  writers  of  fiction  create  her  like.  .  .  .  The  story  has  brains,  '  go,' 
virility,  gumption,  and  originality."  —  The  Boston  Herald. 

A  Forest   Hearth*     A  Romance  of  Indiana  in  the  Thirties. 
Illustrated 

"This  work  is  a  novel  full  of  charm  and  action,  picturing  the  life  and  love 
of  the  fascinating  indomitably  adventurous  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls, 
who  developed  Indiana.  It  is  a  vigorous,  breezy,  outdoor  book,  with  the 
especial  intimate  touch  that  is  possible  only  when  the  subject  is  one  which 
has  long  lain  close  to  its  author's  heart." —  Daily  News. 

Yolanda,  Maid  of  Burgundy  illustrated 

"  Charles  Major  has  done  the  best  work  of  his  life  in  Yolanda.  The 
volume  is  a  genuine  romance  .  .  .  and  after  the  reviewer  has  become  sur 
feited  with  problem  novels,  it  is  like  coming  out  into  the  sunlight  to  read 
the  fresh,  sweet  story  of  her  love  for  Max."  —  The  World  To-day. 


Mr.  JOHN  OXENHAM'S  NOVEL 

The   Long   Road  With  frontispiece 

Cloth,  decorated  cover,  $1.50 

"  Not  since  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  there  appeared  a  writer  of  English 
who  can  so  thoroughly  serve  his  turn  with  simple  Anglo-Saxon  phrases 
.  .  .  invested  with  sympathetic  interest,  convincing  sincerity,  and  indefin 
able  charm  of  romance."  —  North  American. 

"  It  is  original  both  in  plot  and  in  treatment,  and  its  skilful  mingling  of 
idyllic  beauty  and  tragedy  plays  curious  tricks  with  one's  emotions  .  .  . 
and  leaves  an  impression  of  happiness  and  spiritual  uplift.  It  is  a  story 
that  any  man  or  woman  will  be  the  better  for  reading."  —  Record-Herald, 
Chicago. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

PTJBLISHEBS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 
15 


Mr.  MAURICE  HEWLETT'S  NOVELS 


Each,  in  decorated  cloth  covers,  $1.50 


The  Forest  Lovers 

"  The  book  is  a  joy  to  read  and  to  remember,  a  source  of  clean  and  pure 
delight  to  the  spiritual  sense,  a  triumph  of  romance  reduced  to  the  essen 
tials,  and  interpreted  with  a  mastery  of  expression  that  is  well-nigh  beyond 
praise."—  The  Dial. 

The  Life  and  Death  of  Richard  Yea-and-Nay 

"  Mr.  Hewlett  has  done  one  of  the  most  notable  things  in  recent  literature, 
a  thing  to  talk  about  with  bated  breath,  as  a  bit  of  master-craftsmanship 
touched  by  the  splendid  dignity  of  real  creation." —  The  Interior. 

The  Queen's  Quair 

"  The  Queen's  Quair  is,  from  every  point  of  view,  a  notable  contribution  to 
historical  portraiture  in  its  subtlety,  its  vividness  of  color,  its  consistency,  and 
its  fascination.  .  .  .  Above  all,  it  is  intensely  interesting." —  The  Outlook. 

The  Fool  Errant 

"  It  is  full  of  excellent  description,  of  amusing  characters,  and  of  picaresque 
adventure  brilliantly  related  .  .  .  with  infinite  humor  and  vivacity."  —  The 
New  York  Herald. 

Little  Novels  of  Italy 

"  These  singularly  romantic  stories  are  so  true  to  their  locality  that  they 
read  almost  like  translations."  —  New  York  Times. 

New  Canterbury  Tales 

"  In  the  key  and  style  of  the  author's  Little  Novels  of  Italy,  it  shows  again 
the  brilliant  qualities  of  that  remarkable  book ;  . .  .  daring  but  successful." 
—  New  York  Tribune. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 
16 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


DEC  3- 


'K 


SEP  2  4  1981 


. 


LD  21A-60m-3,'65 
(F2336slO)476B 


General  Library 
University  of  California 

' 


YB  68066 


